


Presumably Dead Arm

by Dredfulhapiness



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Pennywise doesn't exist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2020-11-28 03:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20959940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dredfulhapiness/pseuds/Dredfulhapiness
Summary: As far as lives go, Eddie had a fairly boring one. He was sixteen and he had the same friends he’d had since elementary school. He hung out in the same places-- this was a side effect of living in a small town-- and played most of the same games, and instead of going to school dances stag, they tended to group up and go to the arcade without the fear of running into the local terrors (read: Henry Bowers and his friends) that usually lurked over them.Like most of his friends, Eddie had never been on a date, never kissed a girl, never done anything crazy in his life.Unlike most of his friends, Eddie had a good reason.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Just to start this off, this isn’t the start of anything”

As far as lives go, Eddie had a fairly boring one. He was sixteen and he had the same friends he’d had since elementary school. He hung out in the same places-- this was a side effect of living in a small town-- and played most of the same games, and instead of going to school dances stag, they tended to group up and go to the arcade without the fear of running into the local terrors (read: Henry Bowers and his friends) that usually lurked over them. 

Like most of his friends, Eddie had never been on a date, never kissed a girl, never done anything crazy in his life. 

Unlike most of his friends, Eddie had a good reason. 

It was the same reason he had an inhaler in his fanny pack at all times (also the reason he had a fanny pack in the first place). It was the reason he took allergy medicine he didn’t need until he was fourteen. It was the reason he had training wheels on his bike until he was ten even though he’d known how to ride without them since he was seven. 

The reason was his mother. His over-protective, hypochondriac of a mother. Sonya Kasprak loved him, but not enough to let him go, so to speak. She doted over him the same way one would dote over a new puppy-- carefully, waiting for him to make a mistake she could correct. 

He’d gotten used to it, mostly. He’d learned how to tiptoe around, how to word his requests in the most appealing way possible. In another life, he’d make a great PR rep. As it was, he’d learned to adapt. He avoided making any drastic decisions or doing anything that could result in him getting seriously hurt. If he had a cold, he avoided coughing in front of his mom. He followed the rules he’d set for himself and he was okay. 

\--

Eddie kicked stones as he walked. His eyes were trained on the ground, searching for impediments. Last week, he’d tripped on his way home and his mother had thrown a fit when he came home with a scraped knee and a bruised palm. She’d nearly rushed him to the hospital, hysterical. He was sixteen, but he felt like he was six, watching each step carefully lest he tumble to the ground. It didn’t help that Bill’s bike was out of commission, leaving the rest of them walking until he saved up enough money to get it fixed. Earlier, Richie had spent at least five minutes making fun of Eddie’s attention to potholes and rocks, but now he was preoccupied with teasing Stan about something. He was doing one of his voices, and it took Eddie a moment to recognize it as his John Wayne knockoff, gruff and southern, and one of his less annoying impressions.

“-- Not enough room in these here parts for two trashmouths,” he was saying. When Eddie glanced up, he could see the faint smile on Stan’s face. “So either you leave town, or we meet. Pistols at dawn.” 

“My money’s on Stan,” Ben said casually. 

“I’m wounded!” Richie called dramatically. He clutched at his chest. 

“You will be when Stan beats you in a duel,” Bev agreed. Eddie chuckled. 

“You got something to say, Kasprack?” Eddie hadn’t expected the attention to turn to him. He shot Richie a pointed look. 

“You’d be too busy trying to come up with some kinda one liner before you fired your gun,” he said. “Stan would obviously win.” They didn’t call him Trashmouth for nothing. Richie was known for his need-- if not compulsion-- to make snarky, typically crass, comments. Despite that, Eddie couldn’t think of anyone in the group that  _ didn’t  _ have a soft spot for him. Eddie could only imagine what he’d come up with if he were in a duel. 

(actually, he could. Eddie would put money on the fact that Richie would say  _ Yippee Ki-yay, motherfucker) _

“He’s r-right,” Bill piped in. “It’s your biggest weakness.”

“Bill! Not you too!” 

“Does anyone know what time it is?” This was Stan again. He was staring at the sunset like it would give him some kind of answer. “I don’t want to be late for dinner.”

Ben glanced at his wrist. He was the only one of them smart enough to ever wear a watch. He was also the only one of them (with the exception of, maybe, Stan) that wouldn’t lose it immediately. 

“Almost seven.” He winced. The rest followed suit. 

Richie reached out to Eddie and Stan who each stood on either side of him. “Race ya?” 

Richie won the race to Stan’s house, of course, because his legs were the longest (if he had a proportional body, there was no way he’d stand a chance against any of the rest of them). This claim, however, led to a shoving match between Eddie and Richie (Stan got in one good push before conceding and entering the house). A shoving match that lasted through Ben  _ and  _ Mike’s dropoff. By the time they got to Eddie’s driveway, Bev had to peel them apart and place herself between them, her arms crossed in front of her. There was an unlit cigarette between her fingers, and she pointed at Eddie with it.

“Go  _ inside _ , Eddie,” she said, but she still laughed. Over her shoulder, Richie winked at Eddie. Eddie blinked back, confused until Bev was launched forward. She slammed her foot on the ground to catch her balance. Her mouth opened in an ‘O.’

“Oh,” she said. “It’s on.” She whirled around, pushing Richie right back. “I’m gonna kick your ass, Trashmouth!” 

“Y-you should go i-in, Eddie,” Bill said. He motioned to the front window with his chin. “Your m-m-mom’s watching.” Eddie had been friends with him the longest-- Bill had been the one to teach him how to ride a bike-- and he was most aware of Eddie’s relationship with his mother. Eddie appreciated him looking out for him, but the idea of going inside was exhausting. They exchanged a look. 

Eddie groaned. “Yeah,” he said, gave Bill a bitter smile. “I’ll see you later.” On his way up the driveway and as he pushed the door open, he could still hear Richie and Bev yelling at each other on their way down the road. It made him smile. 

Bev was the newest addition to their group of losers, but you’d never be able to tell just by looking at her. She’d slotted in perfectly, like they’d been missing something before they met her. She could go toe-to-toe with any of them-- including Richie-- when it came to wit, and she tended to have better ideas than most of them for things to do. Derry was a really small town, and before meeting her they’d been sure they’d discovered all of it. Eddie had expected it to be weird when Ben brought her to the barrens, thought there would be a complaint from the rest of them because she was a girl and would cramp their style. And there was a little bit, until she made a dick joke back at Richie. Eddie watched the smile of respect creep on Richie’s lips, the side eye he shot her. 

_ “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”  _ He’d demanded, and he slung an arm over her shoulder, pulled her in for a side hug. 

They’d found out an hour later that her mother was dead. Eddie watched Richie cringe when he realized what he’d said. 

Eddie stepped into the entryway. 

“Who is that girl?” Sonya asked as soon as the door closed behind Eddie, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.” 

_ Well, fuck _ , he thought. He’d spent the entire summer avoiding that line of questioning. 

Eddie busied himself with taking his shoes off. “She’s one of my friends,” he said nonchalantly, mentally bracing himself. “Her name’s Bev.” 

“Eddie, if you have a girlfriend you need to tell me,” Sonya said. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Eddie assured. “She’s just a friend.”

“You were late coming home,” Sonya pointed out. 

“I know, I’m sorry, Ma. We lost track of time.” He was still standing in the entryway. She was in the living room. Going deeper into the house meant passing her, meant walking deeper into this conversation. 

“I mean, you’re late coming home  _ and  _ you have a girl with you. What am I supposed to think?” Eddie stared at her. 

_ That she’s my friend, _ he thought.  _ That we didn’t feel comfortable letting her walk home alone, that we had a school project together, that I’m a normal human that can speak to people of the opposite sex without that meaning we’re boning.  _ He bit his tongue. He’d been prepared for this conversation since Bev had started hanging out with them halfway through last year. He’d known this was going to happen eventually. 

He also knew that he was sixteen and should be allowed to hang out with whoever he wanted.  _ It’s not like she’s Bowers,  _ he joked to himself. 

Instead of saying any of that he said, “We just lost track of time, I promise.”

He took a deep breath and stepped farther into the house. His mother stood, ready to follow him. It struck him, suddenly, that he was taller than her now. When had that happened? 

“I don’t want you going around kissing girls, Eddie,” she said, her tone serious, “That’s how you contract mono. Your third cousin, you know Tommy, had it once and he was in the hospital for a week and he couldn’t get rid of it for  _ months _ .”

Eddie laughed before he could stop himself. “You don’t have to worry about me getting mono,” he promised. “I’m not going around kissing girls.” 

“Don’t laugh!” She scolded. Eddie swallowed down his annoyance. It was slowly boiling, twisting in his gut. “I’m serious. Girls will only hurt you. They’ll give you mono and none of them-- not even that Barb girl--”

“Bev,” Eddie corrected quietly.

“Don’t talk back to your mother!” Eddie winced. The boiling in his stomach got worse, bubbled into anger. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. Her name was  _ Bev _ . His mother didn’t even know her name, so how was she going to pass some kind of divine judgement on her? “Not even she will take as good care of you as I will. Your girlfriend is just going to hurt you.”

Maybe it was because he was already tired of hearing Bev’s name get dragged through the mud. Maybe it was because he was so tired of hearing that he needed his mother, that no one would love him as much as his mother, that his mother knows best (or maybe it was because he had spent so long believing it), but something made Eddie snap.  _ Something  _ deep inside him made him say, “You’re right, but my boyfriend won’t.” 

And, oh. Oh no. 

God. Why did he say that?

As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to take them back. As soon as he saw realization and then horror cross his mother’s face he started hearing sirens go off in his head. There was a line between defiance and idiocy and he’d just crossed it. Hell, he’d pole vaulted over it and broke his foot on the landing. 

“Eddie,” his mother said, her face an ashen color. “What are you saying?”

And instead of denying, instead of listening to the fire alarms going off in his brain (the sprinkler system, too, that’s why tears of frustration-- panic?-- were threatening to prick at his eyes), he doubled down. “You know what I’m saying.” and it wasn’t even true. It  _ wasn’t _ , but standing in the threshold of the living room and the kitchen, it felt like the only right answer, because he was taller than his mother, and sixteen, and he should be allowed to have friends that are girls, dammit. 

“Who is it?” Her voice was frail-- the fake kind of frail, the kind of frail she would pull when he was ten and refusing to take cold medicine because it tasted disgusting and  _ he wasn’t even sick _ . The kind of,  _ you’re going to get sick and die and what will I do then  _ frail. 

Maybe that’s why he said the name he said-- because he wanted an actual reaction. He wanted her to say something that wasn’t designed to make him come running back, or fall into place, or take his damn cold medicine. Maybe  _ that’s  _ why he said, “Richie.” 

“Eddie, this isn’t a funny joke,” Sonya said, and it was what he’d wanted. Her voice was cold. She didn’t sound scared, or manipulative; she sounded angry. 

“I’m going to my room,” he replied, and he elegantly waited until the door had shut behind him to start freaking out. 

\--

Eddie spent the rest of the evening pacing his room, gripping at his hair. 

So, he’d made a mistake. 

A mistake that really, really backed him into a corner here. When he’d left his room to grab a glass of water, Sonya had looked at him like he was something Other, like an alien had come down from the sky and abducted her sweet Eddie and replaced him with something reprehensible and--

_ You’re reading too much into it,  _ he scolded himself,  _ she looks at you like that every time you argue with her _ . 

He paused, swallowed, stared at the crack under his door as if waiting for his mother’s shadow to appear underneath it. When it didn’t, he let out a breath and continued pacing. 

He had a few options, though none of them were particularly ideal.

He could come clean, tell his mother that it had been a joke, that he thought it would be funny, and he could listen to her lecture, listen as she tells him that he’d nearly given her a heart attack and that he shouldn’t scare his mother like that.

He could already hear her:  _ Richie Tozier of all people. Why would you even think that was funny, Eddie? You know how I feel about that boy.  _

And he’d nod, pretend he also found Richie reprehensible (which, he could make an argument for that) and accept the punishment of not being allowed to hang out with his friends for a week or so because they’re clearly  _ nasty influences  _ because  _ her Eddie wouldn’t come up with such a cruel joke all on his own  _ and then everything would go back to normal. 

Eddie stopped pacing. He straightened his comforter out. Fluffed his pillows. Worried at a loose thread on his lampshade. Would that cause a fire? The lamp was between him and his window, which would be the ideal emergency exit in the event of a fire. One time a fireman suggested he sleep with his bedroom door closed in case of a fire-- or was it the other way around? Eddie couldn’t remember, and he pulled at the thread more until it pulled away from the lampshade entirely. 

There was the option that he found most enticing: letting his mother think he’d finally done something of his own volition. That he’d gone off with a mind of his own and came back a lot of terrible names that Derry loved to use. That he stop mentioning it and hope it fades into the deep recesses of his mother’s mind never to be brought up again. 

Then there was… 

He called Richie first thing the next morning. As the phone rang, he watched Sonya out of the corner of his eye as she puttered around the kitchen, still not really looking at Eddie. There was something in his throat, and it hurt, and when he said, “Hi, Mrs. Tozier, is Richie there?” it didn’t clear it away the way he’d thought it might. 

\--

Richie was already at the Barrens when Eddie got there. He was half in a tree, his foot scrambling for purchase against the smooth bark. His elbow was hooked around a branch, nearly three feet above Eddie’s hand. In that moment, Eddie envied both his height and his bravery. If he fell and hurt himself, he’d get up and go home and not have to worry about being forcefully bedridden for a few days. If a scraped knee or broken bone wasn’t the end of the world, Richie had nothing to lose climbing to the top of the tallest tree. 

Of course, there was the risk of breaking an  _ important  _ bone and ending up paralyzed, or dead, or in a coma, or brain dead, but that wasn’t the kind of thing Richie concerned himself with. He would act and worry about the consequences later, and if the consequences were painful he’d at least make a good joke about it later.

Maybe  _ that  _ was what Eddie was envious of-- the freedom that Richie had. There were no anxieties weighing him down, nothing chaining him to the ground, keeping him from gaining traction on the tree and climbing, climbing, climbing…

But there was no chance of Eddie falling, and that’s how he liked to keep it. He watched Richie for a few more seconds as he rehearsed the speech he’d planned in his mind. 

He cleared his throat. Richie’s foot found purchase, and he hooked his knee around the branch he had been working his way up to. He threw his head back and eyed Eddie like that for a moment, his hair hanging, his grin upside down. With a free hand, he pushed his glasses back up his nose. He looked so alive that Eddie couldn’t believe that he’d just been thinking of all the ways he could have died. 

“Eddie Spaghetti! You came!”

“ _ I  _ invited  _ you _ ,” Eddie reminded him. He watched Richie contort as he wormed his way back to the ground. 

“Only because of all the sexual energy I’ve been letting off lately,” Richie said. He landed on the rocky soil with a  _ crunch _ . The grin he shot Eddie was shit eating. 

“You’re obnoxious,” Eddie said, and he was already regretting his decision. It wasn’t too late to tell his mother that he and Richie had broken up, that Richie had been hit with a bus and died, that he’d never even  _ met  _ someone named Richie,  _ who is this kid you keep complaining about mother no one named Richie has lived in this town in fifty years.  _

“You love me.” Richie flipped his hair with panache. Eddie rolled his eyes. 

“I’d love a favor,” he said casually. Richie raised an eyebrow. 

Eddie busied himself with moving his bike to lean against the same tree as Richie’s. “Straight to business, huh?” Richie said. 

“Shut up.”

“Hey, I’m not saying I mind, I just didn’t put myself in the right mindset for this. How do you want me?” He posed against the tree, an arm behind his head. He was supposed to look sexy, but he just looked constipated. 

“Look, I got into an argument with my mom and I need your help.” Eddie looked up at him just in time to see the grin spread across his face. Before Eddie could continue, Richie had already started:

“Let me guess, you want me to walk in there, make sweet, sweet love to her and become the man of the house so that you never get in trouble again, right?” 

“Richie.” 

“Listen, I can supply these services, but they’re going to  _ cost you _ .”

“ _ Richie _ .”

“Probably more than you can afford. Though, Mrs. K is a currency on her own--”

“I told her we were dating!” 

Richie paused, his hand frozen where it had been making a lewd gesture. He looked at Eddie. Eddie looked at him, suddenly aware that he’d just blurted out what he’d spent the night making a speech to say. He bit his lip, watched Richie’s reactions carefully. 

“You… Huh?” Richie tilted his head? Behind his glasses, his eyes were wide (well, wider than usual). “Why did you do that?” 

Eddie rubbed at his eyes. He was afraid to look at Richie. “She was giving me a hard time about Bev,” he said, and Richie made a noise of understanding, “I just wanted to get under her skin.” 

Richie snorted. “That’s one way to do it.” His gaze raked over Eddie. Something twinkled in his eye. “Look at you, Eds, standing up for yourself.” 

Eddie crossed his arms over his chest. Richie was looking at him with pride, and something about it made him drop his gaze, made him focus on anything other than the warmth in his chest. He drew idly in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. 

“What?” Richie asked. “What’s wrong?” 

Eddie opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss. “I don’t want her to find out I lied,” he said quietly. Quickly he added, “Not because I don’t want her to be disappointed in me, or anything, but because I’m tired of her ruling every part of my life, and--”

“And you want to convince her that we’re dating,” Richie said slowly. 

“Yes,” Eddie admitted. He watched Richie’s face, waited for the disgust to cross it, waited for him to be angry. It never came. Instead, a slow smile crept upon his face. 

“Eddie.” He put a hand to his chest, reached his spare hand out longingly, “I had  _ no idea  _ you felt that way! I knew I was charming, but this is something I’d never planned on.” 

Eddie’s shoulders relaxed. “Shut up,” he said, but his heart wasn’t really in it. The teasing came as a relief. “I only picked you because my mom hates you.” 

“Tell yourself whatever you need,” Richie said, still pretending to swoon. “I know the truth.” 

“Whatever.” Eddie started walking deeper into the treeline. “I know it’s a lot to ask. You can say no, you don’t have to be a dick about it.” 

He could hear Richie behind him, jogging to catch up. “I’m just messing around, Eds.” He fell into step beside Eddie. “Of course I’ll help you out. What do you need?” And it was maybe the most serious he’d ever heard Richie. 

When Eddie studied Richie’s face, there was no hint of his teasing grin, no devious sparkle in his eyes. Some of the clouds over Eddie’s head dissipated. 

“Just… I don’t know, just…” He didn’t actually know. Beside him, Richie picked up a stick. He swung it idly as they walked. Eddie watched it trace through the air, watched how Richie’s fingers splayed around it. “You’re going to get a splinter.”

“I’ll just take it out.” Richie was calm in his dismissal. 

“That’s how you get an infection,” Eddie said. “There’s nothing sterile out here to take it out with. And if you wait it could travel through your bloodstream and--”

“Eddie,” Richie said, his voice gentle, “what do you need?” 

Eddie looked back at Richie’s face. He sighed. 

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

They spent the rest of the afternoon figuring it out. 

\--

“I guess we should warn the others this is happening,” Eddie said. “So they don’t get all confused and blow our cover.”

After Eddie had complained about getting sunburnt, they’d found a place to sit in the shade. Richie had taken a seat on one of the toppled trees, Eddie had found a seat tucked up against a stack of rocks. 

Richie looked contemplative, his head resting on his hand. He pointed at Eddie.

“What if we don’t?” He offered.

“And just confuse them? That’s stupid.” 

“No, genius.” Richie tossed a pinecone at his head. Eddie swatted it away with a grumble. “We don’t tell them it’s fake.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Because none of them can keep a secret.” Eddie watched him pick up a few other pinecones and try to juggle them as he spoke. “If you tell them not to say anything, your mom will find out that you lied to her.” 

Eddie blinked. 

“You following?”

“I think so? I heard it’s harder to juggle sitting down.”

“I’m just that good.” He wasn’t, actually. “If you tell them that we’re dating and that they can’t tell your mom…”

“Then she’ll find out we’re dating.” 

“Yahtzee.” 

“That’s… actually really smart.”

Richie let the pinecones fall to the ground. “Don’t sound so surprised.” 

\--

Walking home together was less awkward than Eddie had expected. He thought that his request would have broken some kind of unspoken rule of their friendship, but Richie didn’t seem bothered by it. He sang a crude song, held a twig up as a makeshift microphone, and urged Eddie to join him. 

“I don’t know the words,” Eddie lied. 

“You’ll catch on,” Richie said. “From the top:  _ I wanna feel your body, ahhhHHH. _ ” He hit some horrendous note, and Eddie clamped his hands over his ears. 

“You’re tone deaf,” he said, but that didn’t stop Richie’s caterwauling. He sang the song at least three times all the way through, until Eddie probably  _ could  _ have joined in if he’d wanted to. Which he didn’t want to do, of course. 

He knew the chorus at least, though:  _ Touch me, touch me, I wanna feel your body, wanna feel your heartbeat next to mine. _

When they finally reached Eddie’s house, Richie tapered off, but the energy was still there. He still bounced on the soles of his feet, tapped his foot to the beat of a song that Eddie couldn’t hear. It wasn’t the same one; it was too fast.

“I think,” Richie said, “this is where we say goodbye.” 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Eddie agreed apprehensively. He eyed Richie’s smirk warily.

“Well, you know parting is such sweet sorrow.” 

“What the  _ fuck  _ is wrong with you?” 

Richie pouted. “Would you prefer a sonnet? Shall I compare you to a summer’s day?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, but he couldn't fight his smile. “Goodnight, Richie,” he said, deadpan, managing to stifle his laughter. 

“Goodnight, my love.” Richie bowed, then left. At the corner of Eddie’s street, he turned around, a silhouette in the sunset, and waved to Eddie one last time. 

\--

When the doorbell rang the next morning, Eddie raced to answer it before his mother could. He was hopping on one foot, struggling to pull his shoe on, when he bounced past her. 

“Eddie!” she scolded, following him with her gaze. “Slow down!” 

His shoe popped on. He paused for a moment, combed his fingers through his hair in the reflection of the glass on the door, then opened it. 

“If that’s Richie,” Sonya said, her tone dangerously calm, “why don’t you have him come in for a moment?” 

Richie’s face morphed into something that Eddie could only describe as  _ evil.  _ He looked like the Grinch when he finally smiles, and at the same time as Eddie said, “Sorry, Ma, no time! Bye!” he said, “Hi, Mrs. K!” 

Eddie’s eyes widened. Abruptly, he shooed Richie out of the doorway and slammed the door closed behind them. Richie looked proud. Eddie frowned. 

It had been Richie’s idea to come get Eddie before they met up with the rest of the Losers, and Eddie was already regretting listening to him. “It’ll make it more realistic,” he’d pointed out the day before. “She’ll think it’s just the two of us hanging out.” 

But, judging by the look on his mom’s face peering through the blinds, it had worked. 

Richie held a hand out to Eddie. 

“Hold my hand,” he whispered, just loud enough for Eddie to hear him over the breeze. 

“What?” Eddie said, much louder. 

Richie glanced at Eddie, then at the window. He extended his hand a little farther. Eddie stared at it. Reluctantly, he reached out and took it. Richie’s hands were surprisingly soft. His palm was so much larger than Eddie’s, it practically swallowed Eddie’s. Eddie stared at where their hands were connected-- this wasn’t what he’d been expecting, but it made sense. He thought about Richie yesterday, his limbs wrapped around a tree branch, his hands nearly large enough to hold him up on their own.

“C’mon,” Richie said, louder. It startled Eddie. He brought his eyes back up to Richie’s face. “Let’s head out.” And, with a smug smile, he looked back over at the window and made direct eye contact with Sonya. The blinds shifted back into position. Richie snickered. 

The mood didn’t last long.

“You better hope no one sees us like this,” Eddie hissed once they reached the sidewalk.

“Why? You ashamed of me?” 

“You know why.” And that shut Richie up. 

He hadn’t meant for it to. Not really. They were in uncharted territory here. They’d all been hearing shit from Bowers and his group for years-- and taken some hits, too-- but that was different. That wasn’t… Eddie glanced down at their hands. Richie had his other hand shoved securely in his pocket. Eddie wanted him to say something, to crack a joke, but he didn’t.

“You don’t have to do this,” Eddie said, “if it makes you uncomfortable, or if you really don’t want to. I won’t be up--”

“Eddie, it’s fine,” Richie said. He squeezed Eddie’s hand. 

Eddie was pretty sure he stopped breathing for a second. 

“I think I see the others coming,” Richie said. “Do you wanna…” he held up their hands. It took longer than it should have for Eddie to process what he was saying. 

“Oh. Right. Yeah, uh.” 

They let go and stepped apart, but when they joined the rest of the Losers, they kept walking beside each other. 

Every once in a while, their hands would brush. Eddie decided not to think about it.

\--

“I don’t think you understand how the game works,” Stan said gravely. “You can’t fuck everyone. You have to marry and kill someone.” 

“Au contraire, my friend.” Richie pointed at Stan with the hand holding his coke bottle. “I could totally seduce The Blob.”

“Ew,” Bev said. She grabbed a few chips out of her bag and held the opening out to Ben. 

“It would be harder for you,” Richie said solemnly, “I don’t expect you to understand--”

“It would be like fucking Jell-o,” Ben argued. “Why would you want that?”

“W-we’ve lost the p-point of-f the game,” Bill chimed in. 

“We’ve created a new game,” Mike agreed, “Where Richie says something dumb, and we all tell him how dumb he is.”

“That’s the  _ only  _ game we play,” Stan said. 

“It’s one of the few,” Eddie agreed. 

Richie turned his head to shoot Eddie a betrayed glare. The movement shifted him. Richie’s knee bumped into his, pressed. Eddie rolled his eyes. 

“Fine, what would  _ you  _ pick, then?” Richie challenged. 

“What were the options again?” Eddie asked Stan. 

“The Blob, the Thing, or the alien from Alien,” Stan reiterated. 

Eddie blinked and looked back at Richie with absolute disgust. “You want to fuck the alien?” Richie shrugged. 

“Fine,” Eddie said. He took Richie’s Coke from his hands, took a long sip, and said, “I’d fuck The Thing, marry The Blob, and kill the alien.”

“You’d kill the alien?” Richie asked. With an affronted huff he took his soda back. Their fingers grazed over the bottle, Richie held it there a moment before prying it from Eddie’s fingers. “You could marry it and become some kind of alien king.”

“I-it came out of the g-guys chest,” Bill reminded.

“It was kinda hot, though,” Richie said. 

“Beep beep,” was the unanimous reply. 

\--

“It’s going to be dark soon,” Mike said, standing, “I should head out.”

“I should, too,” Stan said. 

Richie and Eddie exchanged a glance. Eddie rubbed the side of his pants, gnawed at his lip. He dropped his gaze back to the ground, suddenly overwhelmed. 

He was about to open his mouth, about to whisper, “let’s not” to Richie, when Richie spoke up. 

“Wait, uh-- hang on a minute, guys.” Their collective attention shot back to Richie. Eddie felt cornered. This was a bad idea. This was a really, really bad idea. But it was too late because Richie already had an arm slung over his shoulder, had already pulled him in, against his side, and he was saying, “We, um… we have something to tell you.” and everyone was looking at Eddie, waiting for him to say something and he burst out with,

“We’re dating.” and immediately wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He’d read a book on sinkholes once, and sometimes they would be the exact size of a single person. That’s what he wanted-- to fall into a sinkhole and be away from the expressions of his friends. The expressions that were… oddly pleased. 

“Where’s my five dollars, Mike?” Ben demanded, whirling around. 

“Uh,” Richie and Eddie said together. They shared a look of confusion. 

“Pardon?” Richie asked, his voice cracking. 

“You two were, like, the  _ least  _ subtle people,” Ben said. “We put money on if you’d ever get together.”

“You  _ what?”  _ Eddie asked at the same time Richie asked, “what do you mean least subtle?” He’d stiffened beside Eddie. Where their knees met, Eddie could feel the pressure. 

“Wh-who asked who?” Bill asked. 

“What?” Eddie asked. 

“Because I want my money if it was Richie,” Mike interjected. 

“Why would it be me?” and Richie’s voice was heavy. There was something behind it, something solid and angry, and Eddie understood because, actually, what the fuck? 

“Richie,” Bev said solemnly, “why  _ wouldn’t  _ it be you?” And Richie looked like he wanted to respond to that, but he wasn’t given the chance because they’d all started shouting.

The rest of them bickered the entire way out of the Barrens. They pestered, repeatedly, for information that Eddie and Richie didn’t have (let alone were  _ willing  _ to give them). But they had no cover story, hadn’t planned out their great tale of love, so they both deflected, both waved the questions off and pretended their annoyance wasn’t rooted in a perceived betrayal or some kind of invasion of privacy. 

Eddie was relieved when it was finally just the two of them again. 

The walk home was stiff. Eddie kicked viciously at pinecones as he ranted. He’d been ranting most of the way home. “--As if that’s the kind of thing you should even be betting on! Our love lives aren’t some kind of dog race! I mean, doesn’t it bother you?” He turned to look at Richie and was immediately taken aback. 

His jaw was tight, his shoulders were stiff. He was staring ahead of himself intently. He looked like he was about to cry, or scream, and it startled Eddie. He’d never seen Richie any way other than… Richie-- loud, and obnoxious, and annoying. 

Eddie nudged him with his elbow. Richie startled, scrambled half a foot away. Eddie frowned. 

“Earth to Trashmouth.” Eddie watched Richie push his glasses up. He looked…  _ scared _ . “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

Richie blinked at him. “What?”

“You seem freaked out,” Eddie said. “What’s going on?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie shook his head. “I’m cool as a cucumber. Chill as a chinchilla.”

“Fine,” Eddie conceded. “What are you thinking about over there, then?”

“What I’m always thinking about.” He shrugged. Eddie watched him carefully, “what’s for dinner, your mom, your mom  _ for  _ di--”

“Fine, fine. If you don’t want to talk about it I won’t  _ make  _ you. I was just trying to be nice.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“And nice you are,” Richie said, with his lips tilted up. It looked forced, though, like how funhouse mirrors distort. That’s what his smile looked like, twisted and stressed, and Eddie would have commented on it but they were already at his driveway. 

“I appreciate you doing this,” Eddie said to change the subject. They paused on the sidewalk and turned to face each other. Eddie rubbed the back of his neck. “I really owe you for pretending to be… you know.” Behind his glasses, Richie’s eye twitched. But he just waved his hand at Richie, shrugged his shoulders. 

“Anything for my bro,” he said, faux-casually. He brought a hand up, then dropped it again. His lips were set into a thin line. “Uh,” he said, “should we hug, or something? I don’t know if your mom is--”

Eddie looked over his shoulder into the window. Sure enough, she was once again peering through the blinds. He looked back at Richie, whose arms were hanging rigidly at his sides. He still looked tense. Eddie made a split second decision. He brought his arms up and wrapped them around Richie’s waist. After a second, he felt Richie’s arms around him, too, hesitant and loose.

They pulled away. 

“Uh,” Richie said. “I’ll see you later?” 

Eddie cleared his throat. “Yep. Yep. Uh. Tomorrow?” 

Richie nodded, stiff. “Tomorrow. Right. Then I’ll see you then.” 

  
Eddie watched him disappear down the street, waited to see him relax, but it didn’t come, so Eddie walked into the house, kicked off his shoes, and spent all of dinner trying not to think about what had Richie all worked up.  _ He’s probably just upset about the bet,  _ Eddie decided. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The junkyard smelled just as bad as Eddie remembered. It was smaller, too. When they were younger, it had seemed like an endless source of exploration. The gutted cars had been racecars, and hospitals, and base in tag. The bottles had been target practice for Mike’s slingshot. The junkyard had been its own continent. 
> 
> Now, it was just what it sounded like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We're standing in a graveyard a presumably dead arm popped through the grass, and who doesn't talk about that?"

Richie was still quiet the next day. He greeted Eddie with a salute, but when Eddie hip checked him as they walked, he just barked a laugh and didn’t get Eddie back. He looked tired, too. Eddie watched him as they walked. He wanted to ask him about it, but his reaction the night before had been evasive and cold. 

Eddie tried not to get too in his head about it and failed. 

As they walked, Richie ducked under a tree branch and didn’t hold it up for Eddie the way he usually did.

_ He’s mad at you,  _ Eddie’s brain said. 

_ He wouldn’t be hanging out with me if he was mad,  _ Eddie countered.

_ He’s mad at you,  _ his brain said. 

Eddie cleared his throat. Richie pushed his hair back. It was getting long, which meant it was curling. He’d complained, a week ago, about needing to get it cut. Eddie wanted to ask if he planned on doing that any time soon. He didn’t want Richie to think he didn’t like it long, though.

_ Why do you care what Richie thinks about what you think of his hair?  _ His brain asked. 

_ That was barely a sentence,  _ he told his brain. 

His brain was right, though. He didn’t care what Richie did with his hair. 

“We should talk,” Eddie said as they settled into the shade of a few trees. They were just out of view of the road and it made Eddie feel a little more secure. No one was going to stumble onto them here.

(Though, he didn’t know why he was so shaken by that feeling, either. They were just friends and they’d been hanging out alone for years. But still, but still)

“Oh no,” Richie said, “What now? Is it about me and your mom last night? We can keep it down next time.” 

“You’re so fucking immature, I’m trying to have an actual serious conversation with you right now.” 

“ _ Fine _ ,” Richie said, but he didn’t seem perturbed. “What?” 

“What are you comfortable with? Like, for the, you know.” He motioned between the two of them. Eddie watched Richie pull a blade of grass into strips. He gathered the broken pieces into his hand and ripped them more. Suddenly, Richie felt guarded and stiff again, like he had on the walk home yesterday. It filled Eddie’s gut with dread. “Richie?” 

“I haven’t thought about it,” Richie shrugged. Which was fair. Eddie had never really thought he’d need to consider his limits when it came to fake-dating his friend. “You know me, I have no boundaries.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes. Richie had a point. If there was anything comforting about Richie it was his consistency, and he was consistently the one to be told to stop joking rather than it being the other way around. 

But still. Eddie wasn’t looking to ruin their friendship over this-- especially since he already felt like he’d crossed some kind of line by even suggesting this plan in the first place (by even saying Richie’s name). He’d already hurt his relationship with his mother, he didn’t want to lose Richie.

“We need some kind of boundaries,” he pushed. “Like I’d rather not, y’know, kiss you on the mouth or anything.” 

For a moment, Richie’s face was blank, rather than distant, and then it broke out into his normal, cheeky grin. “How will I ever show you how much I love you?”

“I’m serious,” Eddie said, as Richie went back to braiding blades of grass. 

“I know,” Richie said, but this time he didn’t look at Eddie. “No kissing. What else?” 

“I’m fine with, like, you touching me in public,” Eddie said carefully, “But only in front of the losers and, like, in private public.” 

The last thing he wanted was for Bowers to see them holding hands or something. Just the thought of that sent Eddie’s heart leaping into his throat. The previous summer, Bowers had carved his name into Ben’s stomach just for looking at him funny-- he had bled through three different bandages, and he still had the scar. Eddie didn’t even want to imagine what would happen if--

Eddie hadn’t realized that Richie was saying something, but it was his voice that pulled Eddie out of his daymare of Henry Bowers pummeling the shit out of him. 

“--That way if something comes up in the moment we know to stop.” 

Eddie blinked. Richie was still looking at his hands. His braid had turned into ring of grass, and he twisted it over and over in his hands. It was unlike him to speak so softly. So unlike him that Eddie was suddenly struck with the thought that he’d upset him somehow. That he’d missed something.

Eddie cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said. “What?” 

“You know, like you guys do with me.” Richie finally looked up. “Something like that, so if we’re in public we can stop whatever’s upsetting the other person without, like, drawing attention to it.”

Eddie still wasn’t sure what he was talking about. He searched Richie’s face and found nothing but a handful of freckles and bags under his eyes. Richie waved a hand in front of Eddie’s face. 

“You with me?” He asked. Eddie nodded. “I think we should have a ‘beep beep’ system.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “I don’t know that it’s called  _ that _ , but I’m sure we could come up with a word.” 

“Turtle,” Richie said, casually. 

Eddie blinked. “What?” he asked, certain he’d heard wrong. 

“Turtle,” Richie said. “We’re never going to say it in any other context, but we could make it sound casual if we need to.”

Why was he so good at this? 

“Yeah,” Eddie said finally, “Fine. Turtle.” 

Richie shot Eddie an odd look, and Eddie tried to force himself not to read too far into it. He knew he was only on edge because of the tip-toeing he had to do at home.

That morning at breakfast, Sonia hadn’t spoken to him. She’d stared at the morning’s paper as he sat and ate his cereal. Every time he opened his mouth to say something, he’d closed it again, at a loss. 

What was he supposed to say?  _ I’m sorry _ ? 

On his way out the door, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Bye, Ma,” he’d said, hoping to elicit a reaction, but when she glanced at him and frowned, it was worse than the silent treatment. 

Eddie thought about it the entire walk over. It made his stomach knot up. 

“Let’s make it official,” Richie said, pulling Eddie back into the present. He kicked his feet onto Eddie’s lap. Eddie pushed them off immediately. Richie didn’t seem fazed. 

“We already did,” Eddie said, “We told the other losers.”

“Nothing is official,” Richie said, holding up a hand, “Until--”

“No,” Eddie announced, already leaning away from Richie. “Absolutely not.” 

Richie made eye contact with Eddie as he made a show of spitting into his hand. He held it back out. 

“C’mon, Eds. Seal the deal.” 

“I’m not touching your spit covered hand, Richie.”

“Not with that spitless hand you’re not!” Richie raised an eyebrow. 

“Do you get off on this?” Eddie demanded. 

Richie shrugged. “A little bit.” He extended his hand a little further. Eddie scrambled back. 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Ah, but you chose to date me _because_ I’m disgusting.” 

“I absolutely  _ did not _ .” 

Richie wasn’t relenting. With a steel resolve, he kept his hand out. Eddie looked between Richie’s face and his hand. Eddie groaned, and it devolved into a whine. Richie didn’t budge. Finally, Eddie closed his eyes, whispered some kind of prayer, spit into his hand, and shook Richie’s hand. 

“I don’t think that’s what people usually mean by swapping spit,” someone called from behind them. Eddie startled. When he whirled around, Mike was grinning at them. “Get up, we’re heading to the junkyard.” 

Eddie baulked. 

The bushes hadn’t offered as much security as he’d thought.

“What?” he demanded, “Why? That place is disgusting.”

“Don’t be such a pussy,” Richie said, nudging him with his foot, “We used to go there all the time and we all turned out fine.” 

“Clearly not, because you’re like this,” Eddie shot back, waving his hand in Richie’s direction. 

“Oh no, my feelings are so  _ hurt  _ because you don’t--”

“We’re going,” Ben said, loud enough to cut them off, “because Bev’s never been.” 

“You’ve never been to the junkyard?” Richie looked up at her. 

“I didn’t willingly spend my time around trash until I met you, Richie,” she said solemnly. 

“Oh!” Richie said, “You’re in  _ that  _ kind of mood today, huh?” He stood. “Fine! Let’s go! Square up, Bev!”

“Or we could do anything else,” Eddie suggested. “That ice cream shop on main street has some new flavors.” 

“W-we want to-- to show Bev th-the junkyard,” Bill stepped in. 

Eddie was severely outnumbered. 

\--

The junkyard smelled just as bad as Eddie remembered. It was smaller, too. When they were younger, it had seemed like an endless source of exploration. The gutted cars had been racecars, and hospitals, and base in tag. The bottles had been target practice for Mike’s slingshot. The junkyard had been its own continent. 

Now, it was just what it sounded like. 

He was surrounded by piles of trash. The cars were rusty and dirty. The bottles were broken and sharp. 

“You used to hang out here?” Bev asked. The others were watching her face expectantly-- especially Ben, who had leaned forward a little bit. Eddie watched her take in the scenery. The ground crunched under them as they all shifted, anxious, waiting, to see if she’d approve of what had been hallowed ground for so long. What was probably  _ still  _ hallowed ground to most of them. 

To Eddie, it was just filthy. He wasn’t sure what that said about him. 

“Why haven’t you taken me here before?” Bev wondered, and the group let out a breath. 

“This is a lawless land,” Richie said seriously, “we didn’t know if you could handle it.”

Bev scoffed. “Lead the way, Trashmouth,” she said, kicking at the heels of his feet. 

He made a not-so-polite hand gesture that made her laugh. 

They gave Bev the grand tour. Which wasn’t so much a tour as it was pointing to sorted piles of garbage and shouting out what it was.  _ These are all the pieces of wood that were thrown out… those are the cans and bottles… those are all of the appliances… _

“Hey, guys! Check this out!” Richie’s voice echoed off the piles of scrap metal. The tour paused.

Even when he turned, it took Eddie a second to locate Richie in the mess. When he saw him, though, his heart leapt in his chest. 

“What the hell are you doing?” He yelped. 

Richie had shoved himself into one of the old, dilapidated refrigerators scattered around the junkyard. Most of them had their doors removed, but this one stood, hinges attached and working. Richie’s head poked out of it, his hands gripped the side of the door, holding it open. He grinned. 

“I fit!” There was scattered laughter from the others. Someone just sighed. 

“Get out of there!” Eddie scolded. 

“Or what?” Richie challenged. “It’s just a fridge, Eds.”

“It’s not safe,” Eddie countered. He’d heard stories about it: kids who’d accidentally locked themselves in refrigerators and run out of air. Children who’d locked themselves in refrigerators and couldn’t get out and no one could find them. Someone had here, years ago-- he remembered being grateful that he’d never told his mother they came here, because she’d certainly ban him from ever going back. 

He watched Richie roll his eyes. His head retreated back into the fridge. The door slammed shut. 

“Richie!” The shout was a mix of panic and exasperation. 

When Eddie sprinted to the fridge, he wasn’t looking for obstacles. The thought of potholes, and twisted ankles left his mind and his only thought was:

_ Richie _ .

And also:

_ A person can survive three minutes without oxygen.  _

Eddie pulled at the handle. With a groan, the door opened its maw. 

For a moment, staring into the belly of the beast, Richie looked fourteen again. Fourteen, and horrible, and laughing. Then Eddie blinked, and he was sixteen, and horrible, and laughing. His hair stuck to his forehead, his glasses were big and dusty. He splayed his legs out, propped the door open with one of them.

Eddie stared down at him, shocked. 

“What the  _ fuck?”  _ He demanded, his voice hoarse. “What were you thinking?” 

He crouched down and gripped at Richie’s shoulder. His entire body was shaking with his laughter. Richie’s hand went up to cradle Eddie’s wrist. 

“Nothing bad was going to happen,” Richie said, so confident. So _sure. _As if bad things didn’t happen all the time to people who _weren’t_ looking for trouble. 

“You don’t know that,” Eddie shot back. “What if we weren’t here?”

“Then I wouldn’t have gotten inside, dummy.” Richie nudged Eddie’s leg with his foot. 

“What if I couldn’t have opened it?”

“Fuck, Eddie, how weak are you…” Realization dawned in his eyes. “You’re worried about me,” Richie said. He was being genuine. He looked surprised. 

“Of course I’m worried about you, dipshit!” Eddie spluttered. “You could have  _ suffocated _ .”

Richie laughed, his voice light, and said, matter-of-factly, “I knew you were going to let me out, Eds.” 

“Get a room, you two!” Bev called. 

Eddie looked at her, back at Richie. He took his hand off Richie’s shoulder and stood. Richie grabbed the hand that Eddie  _ wasn’t  _ offering and helped himself up with it. When Eddie stumbled forward, Richie steadied him with a hand on his chest. 

Eddie was acutely aware of how fast his heart was beating. From the panic, of course. Because his friend just almost died. Or, because his friend  _ could have  _ died. 

“Uh,” Richie said, his eyes trained on Eddie’s lap. The smile on his face was evil. 

“What?” Eddie followed Richie’s gaze to his knee. A tissue was stuck to it. Eddie jumped back; the tissue came with him. “Eugh!” He shook his knee in a weak attempt to loosen its grip. 

Beside him, Richie snorted. “Just pull it off.” 

“No! I don’t want to touch it!”

“You’re  _ already  _ touching it.” Eddie wanted to smack him. There was clearly something  _ on  _ the tissue that was making it stick, and if Eddie thought any more about what it could be, he might throw up. 

_ Snot,  _ his brain said.  _ Worse, even. It could be-- _

“I don’t want to touch it with my  _ hands _ .” He stuck his leg out, hopping on one foot. “You take it off.” Eddie knew his voice was high pitched and screechy, the same thing Richie used to tease him relentlessly for when they were younger. He couldn’t bring himself to care right now, because he wanted this tissue off of him, and he wanted to take a shower, and he wanted his heart to stop trying to exit his chest. 

Richie was almost doubled over laughing. 

It was Stan who came to the rescue. He peeled the tissue off with the end of a twig. 

“There,” he said, in the same tone one would say,  _ idiots.  _ Eddie scrambled back. At a desperate pace, he unzipped his fanny pack and pulled out a container of hand sanitizer. He slathered it on his hands and rubbed at his knee. All he could think about was what kind of diseases lived in a junkyard: how many rats were here? How many bugs? Cockroaches could spread salmonella. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bill smack Richie on the arm. “Come on, R-Richie,” he scolded. “Don’t b-be-e a di-ick.” 

But that wasn’t important, what was important was killing 99.9% of the germs that had just climbed onto his body and burning the other .1%. Stan put a hand on his shoulder. Ben cleared his throat and gave him a smile. Eddie felt pitied, and sick, and angry. Despite that, he appreciated all his friends that weren’t Richie. 

Of course, none of that mattered, because none of them were going to get salmonella, or tetanus. Could he get tetanus from touching something that had been surrounded by rust? There was a scrape on his knee, could it get in through there? Eddie suddenly couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember why they’d ever hung out here at all. This place was a biohazard, a petri dish for disease and they used to  _ eat lunch here.  _

“Eddie?” Mike was staring at him. “Are you okay?” 

It took Eddie a second to realize he’d heard that before, because Mike had asked him twice already. 

“I’m fine,” he said, and it came out more abrupt than he’d intended it to. “Let’s just go.”

They did not, in fact, leave. Instead, they spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find all the old spots they would hang out underneath the layers of all the fresh garbage. All they could really find were rusted hubcaps and wooden planks, but there was no proof that they were the same ones as when they were younger. If he weren’t so keyed up, Eddie may have found a metaphor in there, but as it was, all his energy was focused on not just up and leaving. He felt like he was surrounded by landmines. To his right, there was broken glass he could trip and fall into, to his left was a shelf with rusty nails poking out. In front of him was a dirty diaper. Eddie shuddered. 

The worst part was that he didn’t  _ want  _ to be on edge. He wanted to be having a good time. 

He watched the others. Bev and Richie held Stan still as Mike approached him with what looked like a dirty rag on the end of a stick. Despite himself, Stan was laughing, only pretending to try to wriggle out of their grips. Bill and Ben were half-heartedly trying to pull Stan free. 

It was a lot like when they were kids. It was a nice day, and it was wild, and Eddie should have been having fun.

Instead, he was standing to the side, away from the chaos. 

Ben managed to yank Richie away from Stan. Richie turned, and caught Eddie’s eye. If Eddie hadn’t been paying attention, he wouldn’t have seen the way Richie’s lip curled down when he saw Eddie. It only lasted for a split second, before Richie’s attention was back on Ben and Eddie felt even worse than he had before. 

_ I told you he was mad at you,  _ his brain said.  _ Why else would he look at you like that?  _

Eddie used his distance as an excuse to use his inhaler. 

The rest of the afternoon went mostly the same. They all behaved normally, but Eddie found himself hanging back from the group. When they finally went back into the woods, Eddie was overwhelmed by the thought of ticks and lymes disease.

When Bev took her shoes off, Eddie mentioned hookworms before he could stop himself. She looked at him, startled, and he quickly ducked his gaze to the path they were walking.

When they all parted ways, Eddie felt relieved. He loved his friends, but they were too energetic for him today. They were loud, and carefree, and sometimes it made Eddie feel nauseous. 

(It made him feel jealous).

He didn’t expect Richie to bring it up on their walk back to Eddie’s house.

“Why were you acting so weird back there?” Eddie turned his head to glare at Richie. 

“I wasn’t,” he said, “fuck off.” 

“No, you fuck off.” Richie kicked the bottom of Eddie’s foot as he lifted it off the ground to take a step. Eddie stumbled. He whirled around. 

“What the fuck, man? You’re just mad because Bill yelled at you.” 

“Bill didn’t  _ yell  _ at me.” Richie rolled his eyes. “Somehow it’s my fault you can’t take a tissue off your leg.”

“You didn’t take it off either, asshole,” Eddie shot back. “You were clearly grossed out, too.” He was walking backwards so he could keep glaring at Richie. 

“I was too busy laughing at you!” 

“Yeah, right, asshole. You were just being a pussy-- hey, what the fuck?” This was in response to Richie grabbing his arm and pulling him between two buildings. “Fucker, get off of me!”

“Shut up,” Richie whispered. 

“Don’t tell me to shut up! I was in the middle of a sentence, you can’t just drag me over and tell me to--”

“Dude,” Richie hissed, “Bowers.” 

Eddie shut his mouth. He poked his head around the corner. Sure enough, Bowers and his gang were leaned up against the side of the liquor shop, forming a half-circle. 

“Fuck,” Eddie said, louder than he’d meant. One of the guys turned their heads. They made eye contact. He choked on his panic. He ducked back behind the wall and tugged on Richie’s sleeve. “Let’s go,” he said, “let’s go, let’s go, let’sgolet’sgolet’sgo!” 

Richie didn’t need much more convincing. They took off down the alley, their footsteps loud on the pavement. Eddie was afraid to even look behind them, afraid that maybe they’d see Henry Bowers barreling down the road toward them, his knife out. He was also too afraid not to look, too afraid that he’d feel the knife before he saw it. He let Richie check, instead, saw him twist his head. When he saw that Eddie had fallen behind, he reached an arm behind him and took Eddie’s hand in his own. 

When they finally slowed, Eddie’s heart didn’t get the memo. It was pounding in his chest, sending shockwaves down his arm and, oh God was he having a heart attack? He was young, but people his age have had them-- or maybe it was that thing that just made athletes drop dead in the middle of games. What was that called again? 

Eddie grabbed the side of the bridge to steady himself. He wrenched his hand free from Richie’s. The second he did, his knees buckled. He fell to the ground tugging at the collar of his shirt. This was it. He was going to die. He was going to die, and it was a fucking  _ heart attack.  _

“Eds?” All he saw was a pair of legs. And then a face as Richie knelt down to look at him. He was panting a little bit too, but his eyebrows were knotted together. He reached an arm out, but Eddie knocked it away.

“Don’t touch me!” he yelped. “I can’t breathe, don’t touch me.” 

“Okay!” Richie leaned back, put his hands up. “Okay, I’m not touching. Do you have-- where’s your inhaler?” 

Right. Inhaler-- why hadn’t he thought of that?

Eddie’s hands felt useless as he struggled to unzip his fanny pack. Rather than pulling the cap off, he hit it off the inhaler. When he breathed in, it should have been a relief. Instead of grounding and steadying him, being able to breathe clarified how nauseous he was, how  _ fast  _ his heart is beating. He kept his hand wrapped around the wooden fence post. 

_ You’re going to get splinters,  _ his brain said, and Eddie let out a long, keening whine.

“Hey,” Richie said. He looked terrified, but his voice was steady. Well, steadier than Eddie’s would be. “Tell me what’s wrong.” And all Eddie could do was splutter. “Okay, okay, no talking then-- just breathing. Only breathing, keep breathing.” 

Richie glanced around. They were the only ones on the bridge, which Eddie took as a good sign that Henry hadn’t seen them. 

“Look,” Richie said, “you’re fine. It’s just us here. You’re okay.” He didn’t sound so sure. Richie was tapping an anxious beat on his thigh. His lips were set into a grimace. It wasn’t helping.

“Just… Can you distract me?” Eddie managed. 

Richie blinked at him, then nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, ‘course I can.” He combed his hair back with his fingers, thought for a moment. “Do-- Do you remember how I told you I was going to get a haircut last week?” he asked. “Well, we went-- My dad took me to the barber. Somewhere on mainstreet, right next to that ice cream shop we always used to go to-- and the barber had the thickest Boston accent I’ve ever heard. He sounded like…” Richie looked thoughtful for a moment, then he said, in the worst impression of a Boston accent Eddie had ever heard, “_He sounded like this. And he got so distracteh while he cut my dad’s haih that he cut his eah a li’l bit._ _So I says--” _and this is where the accent started to sound far more like a New York accent, “_I says to my dad, That man isn’t comin nowhere near my haih.” _

Eddie wasn’t sure how long the story went on for. He only half listened. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, curled in on himself, but it was until his heart rate went back to normal. When he finally realized it was over, Richie was in the middle of telling a story about a centipede he saw on the sidewalk. Eddie reached out and took hold of Richie’s wrist. He didn’t move it, just held it, just felt Richie’s heartbeat and sat with his eyes closed. 

“Are you okay?” Richie’s voice was soft, and closer than he’d expected it to be. He must have moved. Or maybe Eddie just hadn’t noticed him slowly creeping closer. Eddie breathed. That was a good start. 

“Yeah,” he said, relieved to find that he wasn’t lying. He was still alive, he wasn’t having a heart attack. He was just… tired. He felt like he’d run a mile and a half. “Thank you. I-- That doesn’t happen that often, I swear. I’m sorry.” 

“What are you apologizing for?” Richie asked, dumbfounded. “I’m just glad… Thank god you’re okay.” Eddie heard Richie sit down beside him. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to,” he said quickly, “I just, uh, what was that?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're probably thinking, "Jo, do you have any idea how to write a Boston accent? That was terrible!" To which I say, you're right, and no, I don't. 
> 
> This chapter was a lot shorter than the last one, but I had a lot of set stuff I wanted to get done in this one and I didn't want it to get too long. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you're interested in talking about these boys, or if you wanna talk about my fic and see some other stuff I read, feel free to come check out my tumblr @dredfulhapiness my asks are always open!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie was sixteen, and he was curled up on himself on the bridge, his hand still wrapped around Richie’s wrist. Eddie took another puff from his inhaler. Richie was watching him. Waiting. He’d asked a question. 
> 
> What was that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @chironeis for reading this chapter for me when I felt like it was making me lose my mind... ur a real one boo
> 
> "like an old man, say i reckon,  
i love you for a millisecond,  
but i don’t wear a watch or rolex  
and my brain’s a toddler rollerskating down a hill"

Before he’d even entered kindergarten, Eddie had been introduced to the concept of death. It came in the night and, like an earthquake, left him as scarred and shaken as the ground beneath him. 

When his father died, Eddie stood in church and listened to family members talk about him. Listened as they told him how much he’d loved him, and how proud he’d be to see how strong he was, and Eddie just stared at them, numb. 

In the days following his father’s death, everything was grey. The cold cut tray his aunt sent them tasted like nothing. Blankets felt like towels. Water tasted rancid. 

A five year old’s guide to grief is a blur. A typewriter that smudged the ink everywhere. Like he’d tried to scrawl everything with his child’s hand and it ended up unreadable. When he didn’t understand something, he asked questions. When he asked questions, someone cried. His mother looked at him like he was going to shatter. He looked at his mother like she was a puzzle he needed to solve.

Everything skipped. Nothing was chronological when you’re five and someone is dead and you aren’t quite sure what that means. 

It only kind of made sense a week later. He was home, watching his mother weep while  _ Wheel of Fortune  _ was on the television, when it suddenly struck him to ask his mother, “Are you going to die, too?” 

She’d just cried harder.

The first day of kindergarten, he’d cried so hard at drop-off that his mother refused to leave him. He remembered the argument with the teacher, his mother’s voice drifting in from the hall, high-pitched and stressed, which only made him sob louder. His mother pulled him aside, bent down to his level and told him, with tears in her eyes, that the mean teacher was making her leave, but she’d be back at the end of the day. 

Something in his chest hurt. Not heart break, but a beat a little too fast. His fingers twitched at his sides. She left, and the world didn’t end, and it got a little bit easier every day. 

He watched the other kids from a distance. At recess they launched themselves from swings, jumped in muddy puddles, tackled each other.

He got used to the tightening of his gut, the light-headed panic. He taught himself to flush public toilets with his feet instead of his hands; he memorized which sections of the playground kids tended to get hurt the most on and he avoided them like the plague.

It swallowed him during a spelling test one time, because the kid next to him wouldn’t stop tapping his pen, and Eddie couldn’t remember how to spell “investigate” and he didn’t even realize he was crying until the teacher was pulling him out of the classroom. She knelt down in front of him, and told him he couldn’t go anywhere until he had calmed down, and he was disrupting all of the other kids, and little boys shouldn’t cry, and what even was the matter anyway and Eddie couldn’t formulate a response because he still couldn’t remember how to spell investigate and her hand was on his shoulder and he couldn’t  _ breathe _ . 

They said it was an asthma attack. He got sent home early. They got an inhaler the next day.

It was a thought he couldn’t get rid of, no matter how hard he tried. On holidays, they visited his father’s grave and he pictured his own name on the gravestone. Or his mothers. 

Every stomach ache, every sore throat, every cough he found himself in the doctor’s office. When he closed his eyes at night, he could see the mural that was painted on the wall of the waiting room. The rainbow hot air balloon surrounded by birds and clouds. 

It made him feel a little bit better.

Trips to the pharmacy became a pilgrimage. 

He was seven years old and walking there at least three times a week. It was always something-- there was a new medicine his mother wanted him to pick up, they needed cough drops, or advil, or his inhaler needed to be refilled so he’d walk down Main street and wander down the aisles filled with tissues and bandages and makeup and he’d pretend that this was normal, that all of the other kids spent their days going to the pharmacy, too.

It was the third grade when Bill and Richie sat down at his lunch table. 

“Do you like comic books?” Richie asked, instead of saying hello. 

Eddie stared at him. His big eyes stared back, unblinking, as he looked at Eddie like he was the most fascinating person in the world-- and Eddie hadn’t even said anything yet. 

“Yeah,” Eddie said, more confrontational than he’d meant to, “of course I do.” 

“That pink shirt makes you look like a girl,” Richie replied, off topic and callous. Bill hit him on the arm. 

“R-R-Richie,” he said under his breath. 

“What do you mean?” Eddie shot back, “The pink is more manly than your flower shirt!” 

“At least I don’t look like I borrowed it from my sister’s closet.”

“I don’t even  _ have _ a sister! Why did you sit here if you were just going to complain about my shirt? Don’t you think that’s pretty rude?”

He’d said more. He didn’t remember what, but he remembered the self-satisfied smile that had crossed Richie’s face as he complained. When he finally paused for air, Bill and Richie exchanged a look. Bill nodded. 

When Richie said, “Want to come play with us after school?” it sounded more like a challenge than an offer. Eddie didn’t have any siblings, or friends, but the instinct to accept a dare was still there, still burning hot under his skin. 

He sighed. “ _ Fine _ ,” he decided, though he was secretly excited that someone had invited him to do something. 

Eddie watched them race down the hill in awe. Neither of them attempted to brake, not even when they neared the bottom where the side street connected to another road. Instead, they took the impact, twisted their handlebars, and rode directly toward each other to see who would chicken out first. Eddie held his breath. 

They both barely missed each other, but they cheered like the Patriots had just won the Super Bowl. 

Something clenched in his gut as he watched them have fun. They were going to get  _ hurt _ . 

But they weren’t. They were doing something stupid, and dangerous, and they looked so, so far from the man that Eddie had seen laid out in the casket. 

“Hey shorty! You wanna join us?” 

“Y-yeah! C-come on, E-Eddie!”

And he  _ did _ . Eddie wanted to joust on his bike as if it couldn’t kill him. He wanted to charge down the hill as Bill yelled, “HI HO SILVER AWAAAAY” and he wanted to find comfort in the speed. He wanted… He wanted…

“He probably can’t ride a bike,” Richie said in the silence of Eddie’s hesitation. 

Eddie crossed his arms over his chest. “Of course I can ride a bike!” he shot back. “I could ride a bike better than you!” 

“Then where’s your bike?” Richie demanded. 

It was at home, in the garage, under a tarp with the training wheels still attached. 

Eddie’s face flushed red. 

“Told you!” Richie announced. 

“Wh-why don’t y-you g-g-get on my handdleb-bars?” Bill offered. 

Eddie eyed the bike warily. Silver, as he’d learned Bill had named it, looked ready to fall apart. And getting on the handlebars seemed dangerous. What if he went over the front? What if Bill ran into something? What if somehow the handlebars fell off and he was impaled on the frame of the bike? He’d heard it could happen in a car accident, so why not a bike?

They were both staring at him: the same expression on two different faces. Richie had his arms crossed. Bill hand his hands on the handlebars, holding Silver up. 

They were waiting for him. 

Eddie wasn’t sure what possessed him to say, “Okay.” 

Maybe it was the self-satisfied smile on Richie’s face. Maybe it was the innocent faith in Bill’s eyes. But Eddie marched over to Silver and pulled himself up onto the handlebars.

Bill rode too fast and erratic. Silver creaked and groaned, slid to stops instead of hitting them as hard as it should. Eddie’s knuckles were white around the metal frame. His breath was short. 

_ You’re going to die,  _ his brain said,  _ Just like your dad.  _

“Watch out for the curb!” Eddie screeched as he watched them ride nearer and nearer to the edge of the street. 

Bill just laughed. He didn’t hit the curb, he corrected, but that didn’t lower Eddie’s heart rate. 

“I’ll race you to the park!” Richie called over his shoulder.

Eddie’s brain just about short-circuited.

“No!” He shouted. “No racing!” 

He could just see them ramming into the side of one of the parked cars, or himself going flying onto the asphalt. Riding onto a busy street and getting hit by a car. Despite there not being a car anywhere near them, he braced himself for impact. And braced himself. And when they arrived at the park, drifting to a stop, he finally breathed. 

Eddie’s brain was wrong. It was a relief to know that not everything it said was true.

He met Ben and Mike the next day. 

Two weeks later, he and Bill were in the parking lot of the mall so Eddie could learn how to ride his bike without training wheels. Bill was patient, and kind, and when Eddie fell and scraped his knee, Bill helped him wash it up so his mother wouldn’t completely panic when she saw it. 

He was introduced to Stan, who gleefully pointed out birds in the trees. 

They all took him to the woods and it was dirty and disgusting. Richie stood in the sewers, splashed the water at Eddie like it was a joke. 

A week later, Eddie celebrated his mother’s birthday, and he wondered how many more she would have. Her own father had died from a stroke, and they’d found him in bed on a normal morning, appearing to be asleep. Would that happen to her? Was it genetic? Every day was just another tick on the calendar, another tally closer to the last time he would ever see her alive. 

She reminded him, too.

He came home dirty and smelling of sweat and grass the way normal kids did, she reminded him of the bacteria that live in dirt. He mentioned, offhand, how Mike had been home sick from school and she shoved Robitussin down his throat and kept him home for two days, because germs travel and he’s obviously sick now, too. 

When his birthday came around, she cried and wouldn’t tell him why. 

When he argued with her, she told him the shock would kill her. She could have a heart attack and it would be his fault and, really, what would he do without her?

Despite her warnings that his friends would just get him hurt, he kept hanging out with them.

Richie put a spider in Eddie’s hair, took the comic books from his hands and started reading them. 

Eddie wanted to hate him. He couldn’t. 

He couldn’t explain it, but there was something about the way Richie made fun of him that made him feel like he belonged. Like, if he hadn’t been, it would make Eddie an outsider. It tied him into the group and, soon, they were groaning when Eddie warned them how dangerous something is, and he and Stan were exchanging exasperated glances when Richie said something dumb, and Eddie had  _ friends. _

It should have bothered him-- it  _ did  _ bother him-- the way they had no respect for their own lives. They wandered through the junkyard like monsters, unbothered by the sight of rats or rust or slime. They leapt from cliffs like the distance meant nothing, like they were rubber, like they didn’t know they could die. 

Eddie watched them land, one by one, like stones in the water. And then he watched them pop back up, smiling and wet, and splashing the others. 

When it was his turn, he felt their eyes on him. He was standing there in his underwear, at the edge of the ledge as they waited. 

Someone whooped. It sounded like Stan. The echo of a voice, someone yelling  _ Chicken  _ and Eddie didn’t even have to wonder who it was that said it. Richie’s glasses were on the ground by Eddie’s feet. He looked at them, looked back at the group, and launched himself into the air. 

When he hit the water, he didn’t die. He reached the surface and gasped for air, and his lungs took it in without protest. 

He felt alive _ . _

He  _ was  _ alive. 

It didn’t fix it, but it alleviated it a little bit. He could go into the woods and only  _ complain  _ about hookworms, and ticks, and staph infections. He could trudge through and play hide and seek in the junkyard, and the panic still swallowed him sometimes, but it was rare, and he could control it with a few puffs from his inhaler, or some deep breaths, and it helped his asthma settle. His trips to the pharmacy were still frequent, but it wasn’t for him as much. His inhaler was constantly in his fanny pack, but the asthma felt survivable. He didn’t feel his heart seize every time he grew short on breath. 

Eddie told his mom that he was dating Richie, and he suddenly feels like he did before he met them: like he’s constantly walking on eggshells, like the world is about to fall apart around him. His mother wasn’t speaking to him, his friends all thought he was gay, and Eddie wondered how long it would take for the news to spread. Another week? A couple months? What about when school started up? 

How long until Richie agreed with them? 

Eddie was sixteen, and he was curled up on himself on the bridge, his hand still wrapped around Richie’s wrist. Eddie took another puff from his inhaler. Richie was watching him. Waiting. He’d asked a question. 

_ What was that?  _

“Anxiety,” Eddie said finally. “The doctor said it’s, uh, that it’s anxiety.” 

“Uh,” Richie said. He cleared his throat. “Okay, um. How do we, y’know, fix it?” 

Eddie swallowed. He hadn’t been expecting such a serious reply. He hadn’t expected Richie to be looking at him, enraptured. 

_ He said “we”.  _ and it wasn’t his brain that time.

“We can’t?” Eddie said, and he hated how young he sounded. “It’s not that kind of--” He leaned his head back against the post. “I just need to avoid the things that cause it. If I can.” 

“O-okay,” Richie said. “Then what do you need to avoid?” 

Eddie set his lips into a firm line. That was a loaded question, and the answers were bullets that threatened to wound him. 

Car rides on rainy days. Television commercials for medications for diseases he didn’t know existed. His mother’s glare. Hospital rooms. Failing a test. The way Richie was looking at him right now. Having to speak in front of the class. Touching gum under a desk. Seeing Henry Bowers across the street. 

Nothing. Sometimes, nothing. 

Sometimes he felt seasick when he was on land. 

“It depends,” Eddie said. “It changes a lot.” When Richie didn’t comment he continued, “You know how I am with… with germs. And it’s just gotten a little worse, lately, with everything going on with my mom. And that stupid bet is really bothering me, too.” 

Richie went still. Eddie felt his pulse pick up. Eddie let go. He felt his face heat up. His eyes bored holes in the ground in front of him.

“Things haven’t gotten any better with your mom?” Richie asked. His voice sounded a little tighter than it had before. 

“She’s not talking to me,” Eddie said quietly. He traced shapes in the dirt. “She’s not even really  _ looking  _ at me, she’s so mad.” He cleared his throat. “This was such a stupid idea, I fucked up our relationship just to, what, convince her I was  _ gay _ so I could piss her off?” 

“At least she didn’t kick you out like some parents do to their fairy sons.” There was resentment in his voice.

Richie’s words made Eddie freeze. When Eddie looked at him, his lips were pressed thin, but there was no trace of a smile on his face, no  _ just kidding  _ wink. Just Richie. Richie. 

“Yeah,” Eddie said, and his voice came out as a croak. “You’re right. I guess I thought… yeah.” 

“I can’t help with that. With your mom, I mean, but is there anything I can do about the other stuff?” 

This was a side of Richie that Eddie hadn’t seen before. Eddie had himself braced, ready for the punchline (though, he had a feeling it had already come). This Richie was serious, and soft-spoken, and suddenly (comically), Eddie understood how Richie and Stan were so close. He could picture them sitting on a bench together, Stan looking for birds, Richie flipping through a joke book he’d bought at the dollar store. 

_ You’re stalling,  _ his brain said,  _ because you know there’s nothing you can do to fix it.  _

Eddie swallowed. “I don’t know,” he said, because he’d never had an outside force looking out for him before. It had always just been himself and his inhaler. “I guess just… keep doing what you did?” 

_ That’s not his responsibility,  _ his brain warned. Eddie rolled a pebble between his fingers.

“What, distracting you?” Richie did a voice, it sounded like Kermit, as he said, “I’m great at that.” 

Eddie wanted to laugh, but instead it came out as a scoff. His head hurt. His eyelids were heavy. 

Richie nudged his shoulder. “Let’s get you home, scaredy-cat,” and it didn’t sound mean. 

Eddie let him lead him home. 

\--

Bill showed up the next weekend hacking up a lung. His forehead was slick with sweat, his eyes had dark circles under them. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. 

Eddie took an instinctive step back as he watched him approach.

“Why are you here?” Mike was the first to demand, “go home!” 

“Seriously,” Eddie snapped, “You’re gonna get us all sick.”

“I-it’s j-just a cold, guys,” Bill protested. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hands. 

“Do you know how many people die every year from colds?” Eddie argued. 

“I’m-m not g-gonna die, Eddie.” Bill  _ sounded  _ tired. Or maybe annoyed. “You know,” he said, “they say physical contact helps people feel better.” He held his arms out and took a step toward Eddie.

Eddie bolted behind Stan, the closest warm body near him that  _ wasn’t  _ half cough medicine. “Get away from me!” he shouted as Bill continued to move forward. 

“Why am  _ I  _ the one that has to get sick to protect you?” Stan protested, stepping aside.

Eddie backed up until he felt the back of his feet collide with a tree. 

It wasn’t just the prospect of getting sick that scared him (though, that was stressful, too), but rather the idea of being stuck at home with his mother for an entire week. 

_ She’ll find a way to blame it on Richie,  _ his brain told him,  _ maybe it’ll be what finally gets her to send you to one of those camps-- _

“Bill if you touch me I will break all of your bones!” Eddie warned. He glanced around, waiting for one of the others to step in, but they were all chuckling. “I’m not kidding, I will grab a tree branch and go ham and you’ll have to explain to your mother that you can’t move ever again because you can’t hold in your fucking sneezes-- is that what you want?” 

_ If she finally makes you stop talking to Richie, you won’t have any more friends. You know that, right? No one else is going to choose to spend time just with you. _

Eddie wondered if there was a way to make his brain shut up. If there was a way to make Bill stop trudging toward him like a zombie, eyes squinted and steps unsteady. He unzipped his fanny pack, his lungs already tight. 

An arm reached out, a hand flat on Bill’s chest.

“Beep beep, Big Bill,” Richie said, but there was the faintest hint of a smile on his face. Pleasant. Richie. 

The laughter was immediate. 

“Oh shit! The Trashmouth beep beep’d someone!” Bev yelled. 

“The first time in history!” Stan whooped. He placed a hand over his heart. “Let’s take a moment of silence to honor this momentous occasion.”

While the others laughed, Richie caught Eddie’s eye and winked. 

\--

It rained for the next three days. 

The first day it rained, they spent in Bill’s living room, spread out in a circle. Richie had one of his ankles hooked around Eddie’s. Bev and Ben sat close, their hands brushing as they reached into the draw pile for more cards. 

(“Do you think they’re boning?” Richie had asked on the walk home a few days before.

“Ew,” Eddie said. “Why is that something you think about?”

Richie shrugged. “It seems like they’re boning.”

“Just stop saying it like that.”

“What,  _ boning _ ?” 

“Yes,  _ boning _ ,” Eddie said, exasperated. “You can use literally any other term.” 

“Aww, but none of them make you blush as much as ‘boning,’” Richie said, reaching out and tussling Eddie’s hair.)

“Uno!” Mike announced. 

“NahBllwntlrdy,” Richie said, his mouth full of chips. 

“What was that, Trashmouth?” Mike demanded. He leaned forward, his hands on his knees.

“He said, ‘Nah, Bill went already,’” Eddie said without looking up from his cards. He placed a draw four in the pile. “Mike, you have to draw two because you forgot to call it.” 

Someone snickered. Eddie looked up, his eyes wide.

“What?” he asked.

“Are you that used to hearing Richie talk with something in his mouth?” Bev asked with a half-smile.

Eddie felt his face go red. He nudged the ankle that was hooked around his own, harder than was probably necessary.

“Draw four, fucker,” he said as defiantly as he could. 

When Richie looked at him, he expected a retort, some teasing. Instead, there was a soft smile on his face. He maintained eye contact as he pulled four cards from the pile. 

Eddie was the first one to look away. He stared at his cards and gnawed at the inside of his lip, and he didn’t speak again until his next turn. 

“It’s blue now,” Bill said. 

Eddie pulled a card from the pile. Red. 

Richie put a card down. Stan followed suit.

“Uno,” Stan said. 

“Thank God,” Richie said, “I need a cigarette.” 

“Y-you have to g-g-go around the corner wh-where my m-m-mom can’t see you,” Bill said.

Richie waved a hand in acknowledgment. “Bev, you wanna join me?” 

“I could go for a smoke.” She shrugged, standing. 

“I wish they’d quit,” Eddie said when he heard the front door clamor closed. He let himself fall back on the carpet. “There’s no way that stuff can be good for them.” 

“I’ve never seen Richie smoke this much,” Stan said, shuffling the cards. 

He was right. Richie had taken at least two cigarette breaks a day the entire week. 

Eddie just hadn’t noticed.

He’d just gotten used to the scent of smoke that lingered on Richie.

“H-he’s just t-tr-trying to spend more t-time with Bev,” Bill said. 

Eddie must have made a face, because a chip hit him square in the chest. 

“Don’t look like that,” Mike scolded. “He’s into  _ you _ .”

“I didn’t look like anything!” Eddie shot back. He caught Ben’s eye, though, and he could tell by his expression that Eddie  _ had  _ made a face. He looked… worried? Annoyed? 

(“He’s got it bad,” Richie decided, pushing off the ground to start swinging. “Look at how he looks at her.”

“And what would you know about that?” Eddie countered. He waited for Richie to swing back before stepping in front of him and sitting on the other swing. 

Richie shrugged. “Just watch him,” he said casually. “You’ll see what I mean.”)

“I’m just worried about the cigarette thing,” Eddie clarified. Richie  _ had  _ been smoking a lot more. He’d even talked Bev into stealing a pack from the pharmacy for him. Eddie felt bad for not having noticed before Stan pointed it out to him. He felt bad for feeling bad. 

“M-maybe he’s st-stressed about something,” Bill said. 

“What’s the Trashmouth got to be stressed about?” Eddie asked. When he was met with blank stares, he just shrugged. 

Stan was the one that frowned. 

_ You said something wrong,  _ his brain said.  _ Look, they’re annoyed.  _

Eddie excused himself to go to the bathroom. 

He turned Stan’s frown over and over in his mind. It had seemed expectant, like Stan had hoped he would answer his own question-- as if Eddie would know anything about Richie. 

_ You should,  _ his brain reminded him,  _ You’re “dating.”  _

Eddie gnawed at his lip. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, tried to see himself the way everyone else saw him. Loud, germaphobic, irrational. Dating Richie Tozier. His brain could picture it, kind of. A picnic. Holding hands. Facing the sunset. His brain could see their silhouettes spread out on a picnic blanket. His brain could see Richie pulling him in for a sideways hug, laughing about something. 

His brain was good at showing him the things he didn’t want to see. 

Eddie splashed some water in his face. Through the door, he could hear Mike and Ben arguing over the rules of Uno. Bill chimed in, quiet enough that Eddie couldn’t quite make out what he’d said. 

_ They wouldn’t even notice if you left right now,  _ his brain said. 

Eddie closed his eyes.  _ Leave,  _ he thought.  _ That’s not a terrible idea.  _

He wiped his face with the hand towel and stepped out of the bathroom. He tried to think of a good excuse:

_ I’m not feeling well  _ or  _ I forgot that my mom wanted me home early today. For church.  _ Or  _ I actually feel like crawling out of my skin all of a sudden and the thought of staying here is making me nauseous.  _

He didn’t get the chance. As he was working up the courage to excuse himself, the front door opened. 

When Bev and Richie got back, they were quieter than Eddie had expected. As a duo they were normally high energy, but when the front door opened there wasn’t even a snippet of conversation for the rest of them to overhear.

The door shut behind them. Bev managed a grim smile. Ben looked everywhere except at her. Richie smelled, more noticeably, like smoke when he plopped down beside Eddie, tugging him down by the wrist. 

“You’re g-going to get w-wa-water all over th-the room,” Bill said to Richie. 

“Oh, sorry,” Richie said, and he shook his head like a dog.

“Jesus, Rich!” Eddie jumped back, trying to get out of the splash zone. Stan held up a napkin to protect himself. Mike laughed. 

Richie paused, made direct eye contact with Bill. “Is that better?”

“Y-you’re nev-v-ver welcome i-in my home ag-again.” 

“We’re playing Pictionary,” Bev announced, wiping stray droplets of water off of her forehead. 

A hand squeezed Eddie’s shoulder. “I call Eddie Spaghetti!” 

“It’s uneven numbers,” Ben said. 

“I’ll partner with Stan and Bill,” Bev said. 

“No fair!” Richie pouted, “You’re, like, the three smartest people.”

Stan snorted. Bev stuck her tongue out. 

“Actually,” Eddie said, “I was…” But no one was listening. They were still arguing over the validity of a three-person team, and the lack of attention on him was a relief, actually. He felt less cornered. 

So they played Pictionary, and he and Richie lost, and throughout the rest of the afternoon, Eddie caught the glances Bev and Richie were throwing each other. Richie with an eyebrow raised, Bev worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. They were having a conversation that Eddie didn’t understand. 

He tried to focus on the game. He  _ needed _ to focus on the game, actually, because Bill had dug Dutch Blitz out of the pile of games they had spread out on the carpet, and he wasn’t going to lose to Richie again. Not after last time, when the cards had ended up terrible, terrible places during Richie’s victory lap. 

\--

“What happened in there?” Eddie asked when they were finally out of earshot of their friends. “With Bev…” 

“Huh?” Richie blinked. “Oh, just some matchmaking.” 

“She trusted you with her relationship?” Eddie scoffed.

“You did,” Richie said. 

“That’s not even close to the same thing,” Eddie countered. “She’s trusting you with, like, her actual human, romantic relationship?” 

“Ben is.” Richie shrugged. “He asked yesterday to talk to her.” 

That explained the look Ben had given him. He probably though Eddie already knew and was just picking at the wound. 

“Oh,” Eddie said. He thought,  _ Why didn’t he tell me about that?  _ Then,  _ Why would he?  _

“So what… What did she say?” 

“She has to think about it.” Eddie thought about the tight-lipped smile that Bev had shot in Ben’s direction. “You know the rumors around here. She’s not  _ thrilled  _ about Ben feeling that way.” 

Right, the rumors. On days when people were feeling nice, she was the town slut. On days that ended in y, people were a lot more explicit in explaining the things Bev has supposedly done. 

Eddie knew it bothered her.

Eddie knew that she would never admit that it bothered her. At least, not to him. 

“But he doesn’t believe any of that shit,” Eddie pointed out. 

“Yeah, but how would you feel?” Richie stuck his hands in his pockets. “I mean, you find out that someone you consider one of your best friends wants something more from you. She feels a little betrayed.” 

Eddie gnawed at the inside of his lip. Richie was looking at him, waiting for an answer. “I guess I would, too,” Eddie said. The words felt heavy on his tongue. Richie averted his gaze to the treeline, away from Richie. “Does she feel the same way?” Eddie asked.

“Maybe,” Richie said. “I’m the go-between, not their fucking marriage counsellor.” 

And the conversation was over. Richie dropped Eddie off at home, and instead of giving him a hug like he normally does, he kept his hands in his pockets and nodded. His hair flopped in his face. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Eds.”

And even Eddie’s brain couldn’t decipher how that had gone awry. 

\--

The second day it rained, Richie and Eddie snuck into the movie theater. 

Richie acted like nothing had happened when Eddie answered the door that morning. Eddie wanted to ask, he wanted to prod, but he didn’t want to bring back whatever had initiated the austere temperament. 

So when Richie said, “let’s go catch a movie.” Eddie didn’t dare disagree. 

Richie slung an arm around Eddie’s shoulder before the front door closed, pulled him into a sideways hug. 

“What about the others?” Eddie tried to match him step-for-step, but the height disparity was making it difficult. 

“They can survive a day without us.” He felt Richie shrug. “Besides, the movie theater is closer than Bill’s house.” 

“That’s absolutely not true,” Eddie said. “It’s, like, a fifteen minute walk to the theater, and a  _ five  _ minute walk to Bill’s house.”

“That’s because you walk slow,” Richie said, offhand and confident. 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Eddie said. “It doesn’t matter how slow I walk. I walk at a steady pace, meaning that I’m going to take longer walking a longer distance than walking a shorter distance. It would take  _ you  _ less time to walk to Bill’s too, than it would to walk to the movie theater-- are you even listening to me?”

“Nope,” Richie said, popping the ‘P’. “Let’s go watch  _ Child’s Play 3. _ ” 

Eddie rolled his eyes. He ducked out from under Richie’s arm. “We are  _ not  _ watching that.” 

“Why not? You scared?” 

“Not any more scared than you would be, asshole.” 

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Richie boasted. 

“ _ Nothing _ ?” 

“No, it’s anything-- did you ever take an English class?” 

Eddie sighed loudly. “You are the most obnoxious person I have ever met,” he said solemnly.

“No,” Richie replied, “you.” 

When they were younger, Richie was often the reason they would get kicked out of the movie’s they’d snuck into. There was something in his DNA that wouldn’t let him stop being annoying for even an hour. 

Usually it was because he wouldn’t stop making comments about the movie (and otherwise). He tried to whisper-- Eddie was convinced of this-- but his whisper was most people’s inside voice. 

Sometimes it was because he wouldn’t sit still. This varied from exaggerated squirming to getting up and physically pacing up and down the aisles. 

On occasion, it was a mix between one of the above and the fact that, when someone would correct him, he’d be a total douche to them. Typical Trashmouth fashion: crude, loud, and unnecessary. 

He’d only gotten kind of better. And by that, Eddie meant that Richie had learned to actually whisper. The commentary was still constant. 

When Richie whispered, “It’s a doll. Why don’t they just throw it in the washing machine and drown it?” Eddie grabbed a handful of popcorn and shoved it in Richie’s mouth. 

It kept him quiet for a minute. Still, too. For ninety seconds, Eddie was able to  _ enjoy  _ the movie he hadn’t wanted to see. Until. 

Richie was trying to be subtle, but Eddie could feel his grubby, buttery hands pulling at the back of his shirt. Eddie smacked his arm. The piece of popcorn that Richie had been trying to sneak down the back of his shirt flew back onto the seat behind him (thankfully, it was empty). 

“Fuck off,” Eddie hissed. 

“What? You can dish it out but you can’t take it?” Richie threw a piece of popcorn at Eddie’s head. It bounced off his temple.

“I will rub popcorn butter onto your glasses,” Eddie threatened. Someone shushed him. He settled back into his seat, still side-eyeing Richie, who was burying his laughter in his hand.

“What?” Eddie demanded. “What’s funny, asshole?”

Richie reached out, his hands pinched like a crab. Eddie leaned back, trying to get away as Richie buried his fingers in Eddie’s hair. Richie was staring at him intently, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He pulled his hand away, presented a piece of popcorn to Eddie. 

“Dinner is served,” he whispered like the candlestick from  _ Beauty and the Beast  _ and Eddie couldn’t help himself when he started laughing. It hit him suddenly, and then he couldn’t stop. Stifling his mouth with his sleeve did nothing. Richie shushed him when he gasped, and that just made him laugh harder because, holy shit, Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier was shushing  _ him  _ in this movie theater. 

“Be quiet, weirdo,” someone behind him said, and Eddie could feel tears prickling at the edges of his eyes-- holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. When had he last laughed like that? 

When a disgruntled employee-- no older than 20-- asked them, with a sigh, to leave, Eddie couldn’t even manage a response. He just stood, practically doubled over, and followed Richie’s lead into the hallway. 

He’d managed to get himself mostly under control once they were back under the bright lights of the outside world. He saw Richie roll his eyes, heard him mumble, “it wasn’t even that funny,” and complain, once or twice, about not being able to have finished the movie. Eddie also saw his self-satisfied smile: the one he turned his head to keep Eddie from seeing. 

They were almost at the lobby when Eddie felt the warm press of Richie’s side against his. Not a push, but it was like he was herding him, his presence firm. 

“Let’s head out the back,” he murmured. 

Eddie blinked, surprised. It was probably for the best, honestly. There was rarely any type of security near the back exits, and it was where they’d come in from. Plus, it was slow enough that anyone working the concession stand might realize that they hadn’t seen them come in and buy tickets. There was something off, though, about the way Richie was leaned into him. Their hands brushed as they walked. Richie didn’t step away until they were outside by the dumpsters. 

He wrung his hands and glanced around. 

He looked rattled. How hadn’t Eddie noticed before? Eddie watched him search the brick walls for a moment before asking, “Are you okay?”

Richie jolted. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Great-- uh.” He waited until they were on the sidewalk, alone, to say, “Bowers was heading into a movie.” 

Eddie froze. He searched around, his eyes scanning the streets. 

“He’s gone,” Richie assured. 

“Why didn’t you say something?” Eddie asked, still checking over his shoulder every few seconds. 

“I really didn’t want to hear you freak out,” Richie said. “That takes too long, and he’d probably hear.” 

“I’m not that loud,” Eddie mumbled indignantly. 

“What’s that?” Richie put a hand up against his ear, “My hearing’s been blown out from you screaming all the time. You have to shout.” 

Eddie hip checked him. 

\--

The third day it rained, Richie grabbed the back of Eddie’s shirt before he could step into a puddle. 

Then he smoothed down the pop on the polo collar. When he ran his fingers down the back of his neck, Eddie was pretty sure there was a breeze, because goosebumps cropped up on his arms.

It was Richie’s idea to go into the house. The one on Neibolt street that always looked a stiff wind away from falling. They passed it every day on their way home, its deteriorating frame a staple of their routine. 

“It’s out of the rain,” Richie had defended as Eddie took a deep breath in preparation of protest. 

“I’m  _ sure  _ the roof is leaking!” Eddie countered. “And there’s probably mold, and you don’t know when that place last passed inspection, it could be a death trap, and--”

As he spoke, the rain sped up. He watched the drops cover Richie’s glasses. He felt them on his shoulders, one ran down his back. 

Richie took his hand and started dragging. Eddie cried out in protest, but Richie was stronger and they were already halfway up the gravel path. The sunflowers in the garden bowed under the weight of the water. 

“I can’t see out here,” Richie said with an air of finality, shouting to be heard over the weather. 

Beneath them, the ground creaked. Deeper into the house, Eddie could hear something skittering around. It was dark, and musty, and it made Eddie’s stomach tense up. 

Beside him, Richie cleaned his glasses with his t-shirt. Eddie’s eyes searched the house. He’d always assumed it was empty inside-- hollow-- but there was furniture underneath all of the dust, a rug in what had probably been a living room at some point. When he stepped on it, it squelched. Quickly, Eddie backed up, away from the puddle that was forming underneath him. Richie put a hand on the nape of his neck to keep Eddie from running into him. 

“Could use some redecorating,” Richie mused. He ventured farther into the house. Deftly (because of his too-long legs) he stepped over a pile of the ceiling that was in the middle of the floor. 

Eddie felt like his skin was on fire. 

“Where are you going?” He hissed, because he felt like he needed to  _ whisper  _ in here, like something would hear him if he didn’t. 

“I’m going to look around,” Richie said. He placed a foot on the step. 

“Stop it!” Eddie scolded, still trying to keep his voice low, still wary of disturbing the peace. Also, maybe, of causing an avalanche. He wasn’t sure if they were possible indoors, but why risk it? He pointed to the clump of ceiling that had evidently changed alliances. “This place is falling apart, you could fall through the stairs.” 

Richie hopped on the stair. It groaned, but it didn’t break. “It seems fine to me.” 

“Richie,” Eddie said, and he hated how much it sounded like a whine. He sounded like a child about to throw a tantrum. 

Richie opened his mouth, like he wanted to retort, but his gaze settled on Eddie’s face. He sighed. “Fine,” he said, the groan dramatic. He twirled off the step, wandered into what seemed to be the kitchen. “Look! There’s pictures.” 

Stepping carefully, Eddie trailed behind him. Richie gazed up at the wall of photographs, his lips parted. They were family photographs: children tucking into their Christmas presents, a photo in front of what must have been this house-- they were all smiling. 

“The mom’s kinda hot,” Richie said. 

“What is it with you and moms?” Eddie shot back.

But he felt like a voyeur. They were standing in a stranger’s home, walking along their floors, looking at their photographs. 

“--something sexy about it,” Richie was saying. He was still looking at the picture of the woman. Eddie shoved him. 

“I wonder who they were,” Eddie said. Did they know that their house would be invaded by squatters and teenage boys trying to get out of the rain? 

“Ben would probably know,” Richie said. “He’s into all this history stuff.” 

It always struck Eddie just how  _ close  _ Richie was to the other losers. He knew he’d been friends with the guys before meeting Eddie, but he’d taken quickly to Bev, too. 

(Richie was the one who had stumbled into the barrens only a couple weeks after meeting Bev, a hand over his face, knuckles red and raw. Blood was seeping through the cracks of his fingers. Bev was shuffling right beside him, an unsteady hand on his elbow. 

They’d all stared until Richie snapped, “Can I get some fucking  _ help  _ over here?” 

“What the fuck happened to you, man?” Eddie gasped as Stan rushed forward with a handkerchief. 

As Richie got closer, Eddie noticed the red marks on his cheeks, the cut on his forehead. By the time he went home, they’d form into ugly purple bruises. 

Richie pressed the handkerchief to his nose and hissed out a long breath. 

“He tried to beat up Bowers,” Bev said, there was both admiration and annoyance in her voice. 

“Yeah, you could say  _ thank you _ ,” Richie snapped. 

“Bowers went after you?” Ben asked. 

“Thanks for noticing,” Richie said, bitter. 

“Actually, I was talking to Bev.” 

Richie flipped Ben the bird. 

“W-w-what happened?” Bill stepped in. He put a hand on Richie’s shoulder.

_ Down boy _ , Eddie thought. 

“It’s Bowers,” Bev said, “Does something need to have happened?” 

But she and Richie exchanged a glance. Eddie caught it, even if nobody else did. Bev looked pleading. Richie nodded, the motion small. Bev deflated a little bit. Relief. 

“He’s just an asshole, dude,” Richie said. “He was probably just jealous her dick’s bigger than his.” 

“Are you hurt?” Mike asked. 

Bev shook her head. But when she raised her arm to pat Richie on the shoulder, Eddie saw her wince.)

Eddie was friends with all of them, but he never hung out with them individually-- other than with Richie, recently. They were almost always together, or at least in groups of three, but he was almost certain that Richie didn’t have that same caveat. Eddie knew he hung out with Stan a lot. That, apparently, Ben went to him with relationship advice. That he would fight for Bev. He and Mike had a card game they both played, and Bill and Richie were close, too. 

It made Eddie feel lonely. 

_ They just don’t like you as much,  _ his brain said nonchalantly. 

_ He’s spending time with me now,  _ he thought back, suddenly filled with the desire to shut his brain up forever. 

He watched Richie open the kitchen drawer, close it, then move on to the next one. 

“Be careful of nails,” Eddie warned. His brain showed him an image: Richie’s finger ripped in half by a rusty nail, his bone visible. Eddie whirled around so Richie wouldn’t seem him gag. 

_ Stop that,  _ he said to his brain. 

_ What, this?  _ His brain asked, and showed him an even worse image. Eddie grimaced.

“Hey,” Richie said. Eddie opened his eyes. “Look at this.” 

Eddie followed his gaze to a bookshelf tucked into the corner of the dining room. Richie was knelt in front of it, thumbing through the titles. 

“There’s some old comic books over here.” 

Old was an understatement. Maybe it was just because of the water damage and tears, but the books could easily have been thirty years old.  _ Peanuts, Batman, Archie.  _ Eddie watched Richie try to pull the pages apart with a precision he’d never thought him capable of. He pushed his glasses up, frowned down at the molded books. 

“Do you think we could get any money for these?” Richie asked. 

“With the shitty condition they’re in?” Eddie retorted. 

“They could still be worth  _ something.”  _

“Yeah, free.”

“That’s still more than your mom costs.” 

That’s how they spent the better part of their afternoon. Richie would attempt to open the books without harming them, flip through them, then pass them on to Eddie who, reluctantly, read them too. A lot of the ink was blurred. Some pages were unreadable. Eddie watched Richie pause at this, mourn for a moment, then move on. 

Eddie wondered what he was thinking.

His brain wondered why he cared. 

They stayed there until the sun started setting and it became impossible to read. They stepped back out into the garden and the rain had stopped, the only trace of it puddles on the walkway and water racing toward the sewer drains. 

They splashed each other while they walked. Eddie watched the street lights flicker on, dim at first and then bright, and he yelped as he watched Richie scoop up a handful of water from a pothole, and something inside of him jolted loose. Something inside him became Other (or it already had been Other), and he just kicked water at Richie from the same pothole, and by the time they reached Eddie’s front porch they were both soaked to the bone and panting.

“--But I was thinking of meeting Stan tomorrow,” Richie was saying, his words punctuated by exhausted gasps, “He’s got some kind of bird watching event in the morning, but he should be free aft--”

Like every time he came home, Eddie saw his mother peek through the curtains. In a fit of bravery, Eddie rose onto his tippy-toes, and kissed Richie’s cheek. 

Richie became a statue. His arms remained where they had been gesturing. His mouth was still open, forming a word. His eyes were glued to Eddie’s face. 

“I,” Richie said. “I’ve gotta-- I’m going to be late,” he blurted out. He whirled around. He was halfway down the driveway before he called back, “I’ll see you later.”

Eddie wanted to reply, wanted to say goodnight, but he had short circuited. He stood on the porch and watched Richie round the corner (the wrong corner), and rubbed at his knuckles because he could feel his stomach turn over.

_ Well, you fucked that up,  _ Eddie’s brain said, and Eddie was inclined to agree. 

That night was one of the first times his mother spoke to him non-essentially all week. She raked her eyes over Eddie, soaked to the bone, and sent him to take a shower. 

“You’re going to get a cold,” she told him, “you shouldn’t be out in this weather.” 

And he wanted to argue, wanted to feel annoyed by the demand, but his relief was too strong. She was talking to him. 

“Okay, Ma,” he said, and even she reeled back. Relaxed, like she’d been waiting for a blow. 

\--

That night, Eddie watched the shadows trace across his bedroom ceiling. When he was younger, he was sure that tree branches were monsters, and headlights were alien spaceships, but that wasn’t the kind of stuff he was afraid of anymore. 

No, now he was afraid of a dawning realization. One that gripped at his throat, and clawed at his hair, and--

_ At least she didn’t kick you out like some parents do to their fairy sons,  _ he heard Richie’s voice in his brain 

Eddie’s gut filled with despair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is finally finished.... I am accomplished....  
Also: If I were to start the same fic, but from Richie's perspective, would anyone be interested in reading that?
> 
> As always: Feel free to come find me and talk to me on tumblr @dredfulhapiness I'm always down to discuss headcanons and these dumb, dumb bois
> 
> Also: if anyone knows how to remove the note that i put in the first chapter from every other chapter... please tell me


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the doorbell rang, Eddie was startled (disappointed?) to see Bill and Bev on his porch instead of Richie. Bill had a soccer ball tucked under his arm. They both grinned at Eddie. 
> 
> “W-we need a th-th-third,” Bill said, holding out the ball.
> 
> Eddie looked between them. Bev tilted her head, smirked at him. Her eyes sparkled with a silent challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I took a spill and ran into a tree and suffered minor injuries  
honey, you are nothing to me  
I don't call people anything thought to be so sweet"

When the doorbell rang, Eddie was startled (disappointed?) to see Bill and Bev on his porch instead of Richie. Bill had a soccer ball tucked under his arm. They both grinned at Eddie. 

“W-we need a th-th-third,” Bill said, holding out the ball.

Eddie looked between them. Bev tilted her head, smirked at him. Her eyes sparkled with a silent challenge. 

“I was actually… waiting for Richie,” he said, shifting on his feet. 

“Oh,” Bill said, “W-w-what time is he c-coming?” 

Eddie opened his mouth, then closed it again. They hadn’t actually made any plans. He hadn’t heard from Richie in two days, not since Eddie had kissed him on the cheek as a farewell. 

_ I’ll see you later,  _ was all Richie had said as he edged down the driveway, his wide stride putting quick distance between him and Eddie. 

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, and it made him feel sick. He looked at Bev and Bill, glanced back into the living room where his mother was watching one of her soap operas. 

“I’m sure he’ll be able to find us,” Bev said. He studied her face. She didn’t look any less  _ Bev  _ than usual, but there were dark circles under her eyes. Her shoulders were a little hunched.

He thought about what Richie said,  _ she feels a little betrayed _ . It made him feel sicker. It made him feel like maybe it was time to be a friend. 

(It made him feel like maybe it was time to  _ have  _ friends, because the past couple days had been incredibly boring).

“Sure,” he said finally. “Let me just grab a bottle of water.” 

\--

Eddie felt a little dazed as they walked. He hadn’t slept well since... After taking a shower and eating a hot meal that night, the panic had set in. 

He’d kissed Richie. He’d  _ kissed  _ **Richie** . 

Richie who was doing him a favor by playing along with this charade. Richie who Eddie was already sure he’d crossed a line with by proposing this madness in the first place, and now. And now. 

_ You fucked up big time,  _ his brain chuckled. So he’d gotten out of bed and paced for a while, then fiddled with reorganizing his meds, then drank a glass of warm milk in an attempt to fall asleep. Then he’d started the whole thing over. Panic, pace, re-organize, milk. Panic, pace, re-organize, milk. A prayer. A ritual. A goddamn solution.

He collapsed around dawn, his hand curled around the corner of his pillow, one arm slung over his eyes. He woke up a few hours later, that sour feeling still sitting in the pit of his stomach. 

His sleeping routine was the same for the next two nights. 

It was Bev’s voice that pulled him back to the waking world. 

“Is that Stan and Richie?” She pointed at a cluster of trees at the far end of the park. 

Bill and Eddie followed her gaze. 

Stan and Richie were propped up against one of the statues, knees pulled tight to their chests. They seemed to be in the middle of a serious conversation. From what he could see, Richie’s expression reminded Eddie of a hawk: serious, and sharp-edged. Stanley looked more like a robin, attentive and non-descript. 

“Let’s go say hi,” Bev urged, just as Richie exploded. 

“Fuck off!” He shouted, loud enough for the three of them to hear perfectly. “No I’m fucking not!” Eddie flinched, but Stan didn’t look shocked. Richie stood, brushed the dirt from his legs. His face was red, his lips were set in a snarl. 

It brought the memory back like a flash of red: the last time he’d seen Richie that angry. It was a few years ago, when Richie and Bill had gotten into a fight. 

(He still remembered the sound Bill’s fist made when he hit Richie. It sounded louder, somehow, than when Bowers punched any of them. 

He remembered the silence after, as all of them processed what had just happened. 

It had been Richie’s fault-- no one would argue about that. His words still rang in Eddie’s head, even as Richie was sprawled out in the middle of the street, clutching his face in pain. 

_ He’s probably fucking dead, Bill. _

“What the fuck is  _ wrong _ with you?” Richie demanded, finally, collecting his glasses from the street beside him. 

“Th-the fuck is wr-r-r-rong with  _ m-me _ ?” Bill demanded, his stutter worse with anger.

“Y-y-yes!” Richie mocked. 

Eddie was one of the people that grabbed Bill before he could storm forward again, one fist already raised. 

“Hey!” He shouted. “HEY!” His nails dug into Bill’s bicep. Stan was beside him, grabbing at Bill’s other arm. “Both of you!” 

“Richie,” Stan said, sounding tired, but still shouting to be heard over the scrambling of Bill’s feet against the blacktop. “Go home.” 

“But--”

“Go home,” he repeated, stern. Richie glared for a second, then stood, one hand still pressed firm against the bottom of his nose.

“Fuck you guys,” he said, but he collected his bike and left without another word.

They didn’t let go of Bill until Richie was nearly out of sight and Bill’s breathing had steadied. He rubbed at his eyes, and they all pretended they didn’t see that his hands came back wet, or that tears had trailed down his cheeks. 

“S-s-s-sorry,” he managed. “I Sh-shhh-shouldn’t have…”

“He had it coming,” Stan said, eyes trailing back to the direction Richie had ridden. 

Mike put a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “They’re gonna find him,” he said, his jaw set. He did that when he lied, but Bill couldn’t see his face. “It’s only been a few days, they’re gonna find him.”)

Maybe this was normal, though, because Stan wasn’t rattled (not that he often was). He just called, “Bye, Richie.” Richie flipped him off, and yelled something that sounded suspiciously like, “fuck you, man” as he stormed off along the trail that went around the thicker woodlot. 

Stan rubbed at his eyes. When he looked up, he locked eyes with Eddie. The three of them were standing, frozen, mouths slightly agape. 

Stan waved his hand, dismissing them. 

They lingered for a second, and watched him gather his things. A book (his birdwatching one, Eddie assumed), a bottle of water, binoculars. He didn’t seem flustered as he headed out of the park. No wave. No going to join them. 

“Is he--” Bev started at the same time Bill said, “L-l-leave it.” 

They both looked at Eddie. 

Eddie was supposed to have the answers. 

“He’s been like that lately,” he said in an attempt to affirm his position. He rubbed a hand down his forearm. He thought about the other night, and when he’d asked about Bev and Bill, and when he’d complained about the bet. 

_ It’s probably your fault,  _ his brain pointed out. Eddie swatted at an imaginary fly. 

“Let’s just go,” Eddie said. “Stan doesn’t seem bothered, and Richie needs to cool down before he talks to anyone.” 

Before Richie flapped that trasmouth and said something he probably shouldn’t. The last thing Eddie wanted was to see another fight.

\--

“What’s wrong with you?” Bev asked when Eddie narrowly avoided getting hit in the face for the third time in an hour. She put her hands on her hips. 

“The fuck do you mean?” Eddie shot back. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” She rolled her eyes. Eddie crossed his arms over his chest, glowered at her. 

“What the hell else am I supposed to think you mean?” 

“E-Eddie,” Bill said, and his tone was just condescending enough to ruffle Eddie’s feathers. “Sh-she’s just trying t-to--” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Eddie snapped. “Why are you even asking me?” 

“Why are we-- Eddie, you’re acting like a zombie.” Bev rolled her eyes. 

Eddie opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to argue, but he also knew she was right. He couldn’t focus on the game. Not today-- not after seeing Richie so angry at Stan, so uncomfortable rushing down Eddie’s driveway. 

So, yeah. Maybe he hadn’t totally been paying attention to their game of pickup soccer. That wasn’t worth the makeshift intervention. 

“Y-you’re doing i-it again,” Bill said. 

“I’m not doing anything,” Eddie argued. He picked up the ball. “Are we playing or are we shrinking my head?” 

Bev and Bill exchanged a look, and looked back at Eddie. There was a glint in both of their eyes. Eddie put a hand up and took a wary step back. 

The suspense only lasted a second, then they rushed him. Eddie yelped as he was hoisted between their shoulders.  _ How were they so strong? Was he really that small?  _ He clawed at their shirts to catch his balance. Bev laughed, Eddie cried out in frustration.

“Put me down!” he shouted. 

“Nope!” Bev said politely. Her face was split into a grin. “You’re gonna tell us what’s up with you.”

“Nothing’s ‘up with me’,” Eddie protested, his voice higher than he’d like. What if they dropped him? What if he fell on his head? What if he got a concussion? What if he told them everything? “What the fuck is wrong with you guys?”

“Y-y-yeah r-right,” Bill said. They were nearing the outskirts of the field, nearing a path to the river. 

“Where the fuck are we going? Stop it!!” 

“You’re mopey,” Bev said, instead of answering his question. Eddie squirmed, but both of their grips were tight and sure. Unless Eddie was willing to fall backward and take them with him, he was stuck at their mercy. He was going to the river if they wanted. “We’re tired of you being sad. Talk to us.”

“There’s nothing to talk about! Jesus Christ, you two, put me down, fuckers!” Over the hedges, he could see the shore of the river, sandy and rocky and dry. 

They wouldn’t throw him in, right? They wouldn’t do that. Eddie’s confidence in that was sinking rapidly. 

“It’s not good to hold it all in,” Bev said.

“You just think that because you’re a girl,” Eddie snapped. “And girls always want to talk about their feelings, and don’t realize that that’s the most boring shit in the world, now will you  _ please  _ put me down.”

“Come o-on, Ed-Eddie.” They were close to shore now. Eddie could hear the soft flow of water. “Tell u-us what’s wr-wrong.” 

“Even if I told you, it would be coercion, which isn’t admissible. Maybe even torture, which is even  _ less  _ legal, and-- okAY! OKAY!” he dug his nails into their shoulders as they leaned forward over the water. He thought about the diseases that could be in there. The parasites. People could get viruses from bodies of water, and all of the main water in Derry led back to the sewers, which led back to the water treatment plant, which meant. Which meant. He was still wearing his fanny pack, too, which meant that his inhaler would fill with water, and that would render it useless until it dried out, and even then it would be covered in whatever shit was in the water. “IThinkRichie’sMadAtMe!” he blurted out, his hands wrapped tight around the back of Bill’s neck. He didn’t take his eyes off the water, not even as they straightened and took a step back. “Put me down! Put me down, jackasses!” 

“Okay,” Bill said. “O-okay.” 

He wasn’t placed on the ground as much as he slid down their arms. Eddie steadied himself, then whirled around. 

“That’s not fucking cool,” he warned. “You could have dropped me! I could have been paralyzed, or cut my head on the rocks and bled out-- what would you have done then, huh? Just leave my body out on the path?” 

Bev rolled her eyes again. “Why do you think Richie’s mad at you?” she pressed. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Eddie grumbled. Bev took a step toward him. Eddie threw his hands up. “He just hasn’t been talking to me, okay?” 

“R-Richie? Not talk-king?” Bill raised an eyebrow. Eddie glared at him. 

“Look, I think I crossed a boundary or something the other day. And I haven’t seen him in a few days.” Eddie jutted his jaw out. He had to be careful, here. 

“Do you wanna—“

“No, not really.” Eddie took a seat on a large rock. He sat with his chin balanced on his hands. He sighed. 

_ It’s not their problem,  _ his brain reminded him. 

“You know,” Bev said, pushing him aside so she could sit beside him on the rock, “we wouldn’t ask if we didn’t care.” 

_ Ha,  _ Eddie thought at his brain, but he still felt like there was a rock in his gut. 

_ Indigestion,  _ his brain supplied,  _ a tumor, that magnet you swallowed when you were six finally pinched your intestine. _

_ Anxiety,  _ he corrected, trying to garner control where he could. 

Bev was still at his side, still fiddling with her bracelets. Still waiting. So was Bill, who had taken a seat across from them, and Eddie thought about his revelation in the Neibolt house, his sudden epiphany of loneliness, and he found himself saying,

“I kissed him. On the cheek-- and we haven’t done anything like that before and he got really weird after and he just left and I haven’t heard from him in three days and I’m worried that he’s mad at me and maybe that’s why he yelled at Stan.” 

He paused for breath. Bev and Bill both stared as they tried to process what he’d said. 

“Why w-w-w-would he have yelled at St-st-Stan if he was m-mad at you?” Bill asked gently. 

Eddie would have loved to be able to explain the leaps his brain made— but if he could do that, he wouldn’t have made the leap in the first place. 

_ You’re a rot,  _ his brain supplied,  _ spreading.  _

Eddie couldn’t imagine looking Bill in the eye and saying that, though. He shrugged instead. 

“I know, I know, okay? I just--” Eddie sighed. They were silent and all he could hear was the quiet rush of the water: a whisper, like a voice calling  _ Eddie _ . Calling  _ Tell them.  _ Calling  _ This is all there is _ . “I get freaked out easily,” he supplied. “About… stuff.” 

The giggle came from Bev’s chest, bubbled in Eddie’s ear like a compliment, stung like a wasp. “We know,” she said, and it was warm. She wasn’t mocking him. (Of course she wasn’t, it was Bev). And Bill wasn’t rolling his eyes out of annoyance, it was the statement of the obvious, and for the briefest second his brain was silent. 

“Y-Y-You don’t need to w-worry about th-that, anyway,” Bill said. “It’s ah-ah-obvious that R-Richie likes you.” 

“Just give him some time--” Bev agreed, “He gets moody like that sometimes.”

And then the sirens were back: air raid, Kill Bill, fire alarms, police. The tightness in his chest, the ringing in his ears, tingling at the tips of his fingers. 

_ He doesn’t like me,  _ Eddie thought, mouth dry,  _ That’s the of the problem.  _

But he couldn’t say that, either, because his life had become secret piled on top of secret, with a sheet thrown overtop to hide them. This had been a mistake: all of it, starting with lying to his mom (starting with letting his mom see Bev), and now it was catching up to him, wrong turn by wrong turn. 

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, Bev’s nails bit a little bit into his collar bone. She had a cigarette hanging from her lips, but he didn’t remember seeing her take it out, or hearing the click of her Zippo. She pinched it between her fingers ( _ Elegant,  _ Eddie thought), and frowned at him. “You and Richie get along, right?” She asked, and Eddie scrunched up his nose as his brain flooded with every argument he’d ever had with him (being called Eddie Spaghetti, or Eds, arguments about how Richie used the same fork he’d eaten off of to serve food, Richie staking claim on Eddie’s drink by taking a sip, the time Richie had thought it would be fun to walk on the train tracks). Bev rolled her eyes. “You’re always together, aren’t you?” And maybe that was a better way to put it, because it suddenly struck him that Richie wouldn’t spend time with someone he hated being around.

_ Maybe that’s why he left like that,  _ his brain said,  _ He got tired of you _ . 

“You’ve seen the way he looks at you, right?” And Eddie was so floored by the question that he just waved away the smoke that came with the words rather than scolding her. 

“I--” Eddie said, because he’d only seen  _ Richie _ . Richie ‘don’t be a pussy, just jump’ Tozier. Richie ‘I knew you’d let me out, Eds’ Tozier. Richie ‘I fucked your mom’ Tozier. “Yeah,” he lied. “I guess I have.” 

\--

  
  


The next day Richie showed up with his hands in his pockets and an excuse about being grounded.

“I was late getting home the other night,” he said, and Eddie nodded and pretended that he hadn’t seen Richie talking to Stanley, clearly  _ not  _ grounded. It wasn’t worth the fight. Or knowing the truth about how Richie was disgusted with him, or mad, or every other good reason his brain had given him that Richie wasn’t speaking to him. 

“About that--” Eddie looked around, then stepped outside and closed the door. “About the other day. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… You know.” 

Richie waved a hand, scoffed. “Anything to get Mrs. K’s attention,” he said with a wink. It hurt Eddie’s chest a little bit, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Maybe it was the trace of a lie in Richie’s eyes. Maybe it was the three day absence. Maybe it was the memory of him storming away from Stan, face red and fists clenched. 

_ You know why,  _ his brain told him,  _ because it turns out that you’re just a-- _

Eddie rolled his eyes. “You  _ wish  _ you could get my mom’s attention,” he cut his brain off. They weren’t doing this. Not right now. 

“I absolutely could-- watch.” Richie took a step forward and reached for the doorknob. Eddie grabbed his wrist, put a hand on his shoulder, marched him back.

“Absolutely NOT,” he ordered. Richie resisted a little bit as they made their way down the walkway, things like,  _ she’ll love it if you let her give me a chance  _ and  _ you’re just jealous of the connection we have, but you just have to accept that you’ll never be as good as her  _ and  _ don’t worry, Eddie Spaghetti, you’re still the cutest.  _

And Eddie replied in kind,  _ I’m going to throw you into traffic you imbecile  _ and  _ I’m not jealous of shit but I’m not letting you bother my mom  _ and  _ how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? _

And they disentangled somewhere down the road by the stop sign, when Richie finally stopped pushing to get past Eddie and to his living room, and it was almost like the past few days hadn’t happened. 

_ Just give him some time,  _ Bev had said,  _ he gets moody like that sometimes.  _ And maybe it should bother him that this newcomer knew more about Richie than he did, but that was the nature of being friends with Richie: there were different pieces of him for everyone. 

They didn’t talk about it, they just ended up at Richie’s place. Shag carpeting and music. No one yelled when Richie closed the door a little too hard, didn’t kick his shoes off at the door. No one came rushing out of the living room when he tripped on the corner of the rug. His elbow hit the ground first. It was just Maggie Tozier yelling, “how many times have I told you not to run on that rug?” and Richie calling back, “sorry, Ma!” around his pained laughter, and Eddie wondered why they didn’t spend more time here, in a place that didn’t smell sterile and like Pine-Sol or dirt and garbage and toilet water.

“Eddie’s here!” He yelled. Eddie offered a  _ Hi, Mrs. Tozier! _ “We’re going downstairs!” 

“Let me know if you need anything!” 

No hovering. No glaring. Eddie had forgotten what that felt like. 

The basement was the same low-ceilinged, musty-smelling beast that it always was. Not for the first time, Eddie suggested the Tozier’s search it for mold, because that smell wasn’t normal and it could mean that there was a leak somewhere, and just like every other time, Richie brushed him off with some off-color comment, and Eddie eyed the corners suspiciously. 

A pillow hit him in the chest. Richie was looking at him from the floor, where he was kneeling over the game system. “Are you gonna sit or are you gonna stand and stare at the wall?” 

And, right. Normal. Normal doesn’t stand awkwardly in the middle of the room waiting for the other shoe to drop. Normal sits down and gets comfortable and doesn’t pull away when Richie sits with his knee pressing against Eddie’s, and Normal doesn’t feel like it’s zoning out and being aware at the same time. 

Richie dropped the controller in Eddie’s lap. “Player two,” he said, almost like a term of endearment, and Eddie felt a little more grounded as he gripped the controller. The wires tangled at their feet. When Richie pulled on his, Eddie could feel his tugging. 

Richie used it to his advantage, too. When Eddie started winning, he started trying to yank the controller out of Eddie’s hand, or throw him off with the sudden movements. Eddie kicked at his feet, nudged the wires with his knee. Fought back, just a little. 

The back and forth was comforting: being tied, even in such an insignificant way, to someone else. 

The points racked up against him, and Richie cursed under his breath, tried a little bit harder to distract Eddie. 

Eddie won his third game of Pong in a row and Richie went absolutely feral. Eddie saw it in his eyes: that twinge, that glimpse into evil. 

Richie reached for Eddie, who ducked under his arm and rolled off of the couch. 

“You asshole! Get over here!” Richie cried out, grabbing Eddie’s ankle before he could crawl away. “I’m gonna kick your ass!” 

Eddie barked a laugh. He grabbed a pillow and bonked Richie on the head, hoping to shake him loose, but Richie was using his leg to pull Eddie back to him. 

They scuffled a little more, movements muffled by the carpet, their laughter bouncing off the wood-paneled wall. Richie smacked his foot against the corner of the couch. Eddie laughed so hard he cried. They ended in the same position they started in. 

“I’m not letting go until you tell me how you cheated!” Richie claimed. His palm held Eddie down by his shoulder. One of Eddie’s arms was pinned under the couch, hand clutching for something to use as leverage. 

“It’s impossible to cheat at Pong!” Eddie declared, slightly breathless. Richie managed a grip on his arm. Eddie’s knee was bent at an odd angle, it pressed against Richie’s thigh. 

“Clearly not!” Richie said, “Because you suck harder at Pong than your mom did las--”

Eddie whacked the back of his head with his free hand. Richie toppled forward. He grabbed at the carpet behind Eddie’s head to steady himself. 

They were both mid-laugh when Eddie realized how close Richie had gotten. Eddie could feel his breath on his chin, his hair hung low, close to Eddie’s eyes. Both their lips were parted. Richie’s laugh had fallen into a slack jaw, eyes quizzical. 

_ Please,  _ Eddie thought. 

Richie sat up, abrupt. One second he was hovering just above Eddie’s face, his glasses sliding slowly down his nose, his eyes searching. And then he was up, a few feet back, tossing one of the controllers back into Eddie’s lap. 

“Let’s play something else,” he said. His voice cracked. He turned away and dug through the box of games. Eddie stared at his back. He sat up, slowly. His heart was pounding in his chest. 

_ What the fuck are you doing?  _ His brain demanded. 

Richie popped some other game into the system, but Eddie couldn’t even pay attention-- he was too focused on how Richie had sat on the total opposite side of the couch from him. And then he was too focused on remembering the feeling of Richie’s breath on his chin, that look on his face, eyes lidded, pleading… He was projecting. Eddie pulled himself a little tighter, mashed the buttons a little bit harder. 

He lost-- of course he lost-- but it was by a smaller margin than he’d expected. The game ended and they both sat there a second, staring at the TV. Richie wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t disputing the score, and Eddie wanted to say something, wanted to open his mouth and apologize, or shame Richie for winning, or crack a joke, but nothing came out. Just air. Just a sigh. 

“I think my mom made lunch,” Richie said after what felt like an eternity of silence. “If you wanted to--” he said as Eddie said, “I should head out, actually.” 

The ceiling felt lower. The walls felt closer. He was seasick again, but for an entirely different reason this time. His brain was silent-- this was all him. 

“My, uh. My mom has-- I still only have my permit, so she wants to take me out driving.” It could have been the truth. His mother was still insistent that he be a perfect driver before he gets his license (an impossible feat considering her hesitation to even let him  _ leave  _ a parking lot. The only time he’d gotten the freedom of a road was when they’d all jammed themselves into Bill’s station wagon and he’d gotten stuck behind the wheel in a game of firedrill. They didn’t care that he didn’t have his license yet, just urged him to  _ please go Eddie  _ because the light was green and the car behind them was honking). 

“Oh,” Richie said. “Uh, right. Well, don’t hit anything.” And then, “Do you want me to walk you out?” 

Eddie shook his head immediately ( _ too fast  _ his brain said). “No, I know how to get out of your house, thanks.” And it was meant to be a joke, but it didn’t sound like one. Richie didn’t flinch, though. Eddie was relieved about that, at least. 

“Hey, don’t forget about the sleepover at Bill’s tomorrow,” Richie said as Eddie reached the bottom of the stairs. Eddie paused with his hand on the bannister. He searched his brain. Had they talked about this? Had they planned--

(Last Saturday, in the clubhouse. After the argument about how Richie and Bev shouldn’t smoke in the clubhouse because it affected Eddie’s asthma and it was a fire hazard. The debate about whose house it should be at (Ben didn’t have a little brother to cramp their style, but his boy band posters were decidedly worse, Mike lived too far away, Stan’s parents weren’t really fans of any of them other than Bill). And the conversation about how they’d get Bev there.)

“I’m waiting for a good time to ask my mom,” Eddie said, mouth dry. “But I’ll be there.” 

Richie smiled, still on edge, still distant, and said, “See you there, then.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Tozier!” Eddie called on his way to the front door. He stepped over the rug Richie had tripped on.

“Do you want lunch before you leave?” she asked, “Richie told me you’re allergic to peanuts, but we have some lunchmeat in there if you want a sandwich.”

_ Great. You’ve got people going out of their way for you,  _ his brain said.

“I actually think my mom has lunch at home,” Eddie said, pulling his shoes on. “But thank you.” 

He stepped out the front door and Richie didn’t follow him. Didn’t look out the windows. And Eddie, having finally taken a deep breath, started walking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch the Be More Chill reference? This one took forever and it's super short because it was part of a much larger chapter that I was having a lot of trouble writing, so I'm just making the second half of that chapter its own thing. Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! As always... come talk to me on tumblr @dredfulhapiness


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! There's a graphic description of a dead body in this chapter! If you don't want to read that, skip the parentheses that starts talking about Eddie's nightmares. You won't miss anything plot oriented, I promise. 
> 
> "honey you are nothing to me. I don't call people anything meant to be so sweet."

Eddie followed the neon “open” sign the way most people followed stained glass. The light cut through the darkening twilight. The bell above the door rang as he walked in. When he was younger, coming here had been his alone time. It was where he found the answer to all his problems: if he had a cold, they had a cure for that. If he was short on breath: they supplied the air to fill his lungs. If he was worried about getting chicken pox, or the flu, or rabies: he wandered the aisles and saw all the cures they had available. Where most people would stop to pray, or cross themselves, he looked at new arrivals, and checked his blood pressure. 

He thought of the first time he’d walked to the pharmacy alone. Seven years old, shiny and new. 

(“Do you have your inhaler?” Eddie’s mother crowded over him. She was rifling through his fanny pack, the belt dangling over her wrist as she fished around. Eddie could hear pills rattle in their containers, bandages shift in their boxes. 

He shifted impatiently. Weight on one foot, then the other, a groan forming in the back of his throat. “Yes, Mom,” he said. “Can I go now, please?” He held his hand out for his fanny pack.

“Wait a minute, Eddie,” Sonia scolded. “Don’t rush me-- I want to make sure you’re going to be safe!”

Eddie tilted his head back and screamed silently at the popcorn ceiling. After weeks of begging, his mother had finally agreed to let him walk to the pharmacy alone, but now it seemed like she was stalling. 

“Do you remember how to get there?” Sonia asked. 

“Yes,” Eddie said, chewing on his annoyance, “It’s right on Main Street, Mom.” 

“Do you know what you’re going to do when you get there?” 

Eddie bit at the inside of his cheek. “ _ Yes,  _ mom.” 

“Tell me,” she ordered. 

Eddie snapped the pack around his waist. “I walk up to the pharmacy, give them my name, and wait for Mr. Keene to give it to me.”

“Before that.” Sonia narrowed her eyes. Eddie sighed. 

“I ask Mr. Keene to let me use the phone to call and let you know I got there,” Eddie said. “Can I go  _ now _ ?” 

“What are you going to do while you wait for him to fill the prescription?”

Eddie wanted to scream. Like, actually scream this time, not just stare at the ceiling and imagine the sound waves shaking the house.

It was another ten minutes before he got out the door. Sonia watched him cross the grass, his feet sinking just slightly into the damp ground. They’d had a barrage of summer storms over the past week, and the air smelled moist. Eddie let himself bask in a deep breath once he’d rounded the corner, out of sight of his mother. 

Holy shit, he was out of sight of his mother. 

He was on his own. 

Eddie pumped his fists. He kicked at the grass. He stuck his hands in his pockets the way he’d seen adults do: determined, self-assured.  _ Ah yes,  _ he imagined himself saying to a neighbor who asked,  _ I’m walking to the pharmacy alone. No, my mother is not here. I need to go pick up a prescription.  _ In his brain, he sounded like a capable adult who did this sort of thing all the time. 

In reality, he clutched at his house key in his pocket, eyeing the streets warily. 

Eddie heard the sound of brakes to his left. The sound of a car slowing down, like lowering the volume on the radio. He turned his head, slight. From the driver’s seat, a man smiled at him.

_ Do you remember those stories your mom told you?  _ His brain asked. Eddie’s eye twitched. He saw the images in his brain: a bag over his head, the tight squeeze of his body in the trunk of a car, a dead body in the woods. Dead body rotting. He’d read about that once. How bodies decay. The librarian kicked him out of the library when she’d seen him in the corner, a medical book on one lap, a dictionary on the other. 

(He still had nightmares about those pictures: about the body sitting up, one eye socket bare save for the white flashes of maggots crawling around inside the head, and looking at Eddie. Really looking. 

It smiled, and thick, black blood flowed from its mouth. Teeth came out with it like clots. Eddie scrambled back, out of the splash zone, away from sunken-in chest and bloated back. 

“Eddie,” it said, extending its hand, flesh dripping where it had slipped from the body. It spoke like its mouth was full of water. Like it was drowning. When it moved, Eddie gagged. The bottom of its arm was bruised black. There were white sections where its wrist had been pressed against the ground. Its knees bent. It disturbed the leaves around it as it tried to stand. 

Eddie’s back pushed against a tree as he fought to get away. He didn’t want to see how dirt stuck to a rotted body, or how flies erupted from inside it, spilling out into the dark twilight of the outside world as their home found its movement again. 

“Eddie,” it said, its grin only grew wider and wider, splitting its face as the taut skin finally broke. “Join me.”

Eddie could feel the stare when he woke. Could still smell the leaves and rotting flesh, and the flies circling around his head, waiting. Waiting for him.)

The car pulled up at a stop light and, for a moment, it was right beside Eddie, right in the perfect place to call him up to the window under the pretense of needing directions, and to grab him. That happened sometimes. He’d seen the  _ 60 Minutes  _ about it. 

Someone passed on his right. Eddie stiffened, waiting for the impact of hands on his shoulders. Was he strong enough to kick out a tail light if he needed to? Would anyone help if he did? 

The light turned green. The car continued winding its way down Main Street. 

Eddie took a puff of his inhaler. 

“Hey, Eddie!” He jumped, whirled around. Leland Gaunt, the owner of one of the newer stores on Main Street ( _ what was it called?  _ Eddie had heard his mother gossiping about it with other mothers in the neighborhood.  _ Needful Things _ ) was under the awning in front of his shop, covering the table outside with books. “You out here by yourself?”

_ You are,  _ his brain said,  _ all alone.  _

“No,” Eddie said, too quick. “My mom’s at the pharmacy.” He puffed his chest out. Tried to seem bigger and less stealable than he was. 

(This was before any children went missing. In hindsight, Eddie was grateful for that, because his mother never would have let him out of the house again if she’d heard about that. 

Bill’s little brother had been the first to go missing. Wandered off. One minute there, one minute gone. He was out playing in the rain, and then he didn’t come home. 

Things weren’t really that simple, of course. They very rarely were.

Georgie went out in the rain, and then he didn’t come back for five days.

He’d gotten turned around and ended up lost in the barrens when he followed his paper boat down the river. He’d followed it from the park to the sandy thicket just on the edge of town. 

A jogger found him--  _ it’s always the jogger,  _ Richie had mused when they were out of earshot of Bill,  _ who even jogs in the barrens? _ \-- on the morning of the fifth day, sleeping under bushes.)

Leland chuckled, a charismatic gesture that sent chills down Eddie’s spine. Eddie shoved his hands in his pockets. 

The problem with being a kid who has anxiety is that the triumph doesn’t last for long. Instead of childish wanderings, the feeling of freedom quickly dissolved into terror. All the stories his mother had told him about kids going missing were suddenly within reach. One wrong move, and Eddie could be one of them. One wrong step and he could fall into traffic. One wrong turn and he would never find his way back home. 

Eddie had been hoping to test his boundaries a little bit. Take a penny of the change and get a gumball from the machine, maybe a pop from the fridge. Wander the store instead of sitting in the small waiting section while Mr. Keene filled his prescription.

By the time he got there, though, the contumacy had faded. He got to the pharmacy, and when he asked to use the phone, Keene seemed annoyed, but compliant as he handed the phone over, Sonia’s number already dialed. 

“Eddie?” she asked, her voice shrill. “Is that you?”

He swallowed. “Yeah, Ma.”

And when he called and asked for a ride home, Sonia didn’t ask questions, or scold him, she showed up and drove him home, and talked about how he  _ just wasn’t ready yet  _ and that was her fault because she  _ should have known better _ and Eddie tried to fight the shame that burned in his chest as he watched a gaggle of kids younger than him race down the street without any parental supervision in sight.)

Eddie’s sixteen, and he walks into the pharmacy. It sounded like the beginning of a joke Richie would tell:

Eddie’s sixteen and he walks into a pharmacy, and the pharmacist says: _ the optometrist is down the street.  _

The light was jarring compared to the dusk outside. Instead of summer nights and allergens, the pharmacy smelled sterile. It smelled like the inside of a pill bottle, or the paper they put down on the cot at the doctor’s office. 

He took his time wiping his feet on the mat. Through the closed door, Eddie could still hear the faint cries of cicadas. 

His problem with going to the pharmacy was always this: where to start. When he’d been little it was easier— go ask for your prescription, then sit next to the blood pressure machine without moving until it’s filled. Don’t talk to anyone other than Mr. Keene. Don’t look at anything other than that or you’ll turn to stone. 

A little older, and he’d just beelined to the candy aisle: Twizzlers, malt balls, jawbreakers. There were usually toys mixed into that aisle, too. Things like army men and Wheel-o’s. 

Where do you go when seeking sage advice? There was no Zoltar within the confines of Derry, let alone the four walls of Keene’s Pharmacy, and the closest they had was fortune cookies from the Chinese restaurant by the strip mall. 

_ Maybe you should have gone there,  _ Eddie’s brain said.  _ Not like coming here made any more sense.  _

Eddie started with the pain relief aisle. Walked down it alphabetically: Aspirin, Ibuprofen, Tylenol. Something to fix the headache that’d been squeezing at his brain since he’d left Richie’s house. (Though, he probably had some at home, or in his pockets if he looked, but he didn’t really want to. Plus, they’d probably be covered in lint or dirt, or whatever germs had been on his hands when they went into his pockets, and--).

The bandages reminded him of Ben-- when they’d patched him up after he’d gotten his ass kicked by Bowers. His gut had been a bloody, cut mess as they applied pressure until the bleeding tapered off. Despite the shitty situation, Eddie had felt good. Needed. He knew how to patch up a wound, how to make sure it didn’t get infected. He’d had the answers. Maybe the others mocked him for his medical prowess normally, but when they needed first aid, he was the one who could deliver it.

That was more than he had now. 

Now, he wandered down the cough drop aisle and wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten himself into this mess. He couldn’t stop thinking about how Richie had disengaged himself so quickly. 

The moment-- the split second of  _ disgust  _ on his face.

“He knows,” Eddie said to the greeting cards. 

And that realization should have been heavenly. Eddie recognized it for what it was: a confession. 

And yet: he felt nothing. No other-worldly forgiveness, no supernatural spite. He was just a kid in a pharmacy, fingers trailing over price tags, pretending he could find the answer to all his problems between makeup and candy, and all he found was…

“Eddie?” Mr. Keene leaned over the counter, squinting to confirm Eddie’s identity. 

“Oh, uh,” Eddie said. He shifted from one foot to the other. “Hi, Mr. Keene.”

“I don’t have any prescriptions for you.” 

“I know,” Eddie said. He reached an arm out and grabbed something off the shelf. “My mom just sent me in to pick something up.”

“She sent you in for  _ that _ ?” Keene asked, nodding at Eddie’s hand. “Really?”

Eddie glanced down. Clutched in his palm was a pack of adult diapers. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, then looked up at Mr. Keene with a forced smile. 

“Yep,” he said, voice cracking. 

\--

Eddie dumped the diapers in the trash behind the pharmacy. 

\--

Working up the courage to ask to do something was always like going for a run (something he was notably  _ not  _ allowed to do). Asking to go out normally was like a brisk walk. Asking to take his bike was a light jog. Asking to spend the night somewhere was a marathon. Especially now. 

“Will Richie be there?” And he opened his mouth, about to be honest, about to be seven years old and begging to be picked up from the pharmacy, but what came out was,

“No, he has to watch his sister in the morning.” He shifted on his feet. “He might stop by at night, but he’s not staying over,” he added, suddenly stressed about being caught in a lie. 

She looked at him, her lips set in a thin line. “Will Bill’s parents be there all night?”

He nodded, curt. 

“Will that Beverly girl be there?” He shook his head. “Good.” She turned back to the television. “I’ve heard what she’s like around boys.” 

Eddie bit his tongue. “Does that mean I can go?”

“If you do all of your chores first.”

This was the most she’d talked to him in three weeks. 

\--

Richie  _ was  _ there when Eddie showed up. In fact, it looked like he’d been there for a while. He was sprawled out on the couch, one leg slung up on the arm, one of Bill’s mom’s piano books held open above his head. When Eddie walked in, Richie looked up and  _ beamed  _ at him. 

Eddie thought of the pharmacy: bright lights and fake cures. ( _ That would make a good band name,  _ he could hear Richie say.) 

“Eddie Spaghetti!” He rejoiced, as if the awkwardness of yesterday hadn’t happened. 

“Don’t call me that.” But it took some of the weight off Eddie’s shoulders. His revelation from the night before hadn’t been world-ending, no matter what his brain tried to say. 

“Why not?” Richie pouted. “A cute name for a cute guy.”

“G-gross,” Bill said, as Eddie’s brain warned him  _ it’s not real.  _ That didn’t stop his face from burning, though. 

“Where’s everyone else?” he asked, trying to play his embarrassment off. He scanned the living room, but there were only three of them standing there. 

“B-Ben and Bev are w-w-walking over together,” Bill said (Richie shot Eddie a look at that), “Mike’s in th-the bath-throom, and Stan’ll be h-here s-soon.” 

Eddie picked at his nails while they waited. Richie and Bill debated which games they should play. Mike chimed in once he made it back to the living room and it made Eddie feel less uncomfortable. Like he needed to be less present now. Maybe that was because Mike was the only one here he hadn’t almost kissed or been psychoanalyzed by. Maybe it was because there was another person here to draw the attention off of him.

Richie wasn’t acting weird, which meant that Eddie shouldn’t either. Maybe he was reading too far into this. Maybe he’d lied to the greeting cards the day before. Maybe he should stop speculating and focus on the expanding company in the room he was in right now. 

Stanley showed up and Eddie made some remark about the cut on his knees that even he didn’t remember and Richie ragged on Stan for something else and the subject shifted and Eddie only managed to really feel grounded after Bev and Ben showed up. But maybe that was just because Richie nudged his knee when they walked in the door together. 

Maybe it was Richie that had grounded him. 

It didn’t matter, Eddie decided before his brain could get a word in edgewise. He wasn’t going to let it matter.

\--

“How’d you get away with being here?” Richie reached across the circle and poked Bev with his foot. 

“Gretta happens to be having a sleepover tonight,” Bev said. She grabbed a handful of chips from the bowl and shoved them in her mouth. 

“Don’t you hate her?” Stan asked. 

“My dad doesn’t know that.” She winked. “So are we getting this party started, or what?” 

“Th-there’s food in the kitchen.”

And the night officially began.

\--

There were no seats left by the time they were ready to watch the movie, and since Richie was the longest (and would, by default, take up the most room) he was banished to sitting on the carpet. 

“It’s fine,” he said, sounding annoyed, “I have the best view of miss Molly Ringwald. Everything I need to see is all at eye level.”

“G-Gross.” 

\--

Twenty minutes into the movie, Eddie slid out of his seat as quietly as he could. 

His legs were growing numb and his eyes were growing heavy and he needed to walk around the house. Inactivity for prolonged periods of time could lead to heart issues, according to one of the posters hanging in Keene’s Pharmacy. Also, he couldn’t stand Richie’s running commentary anymore.

He just needed a break. 

When he got back to the living room, he rolled his eyes. Richie was sprawled out in the chair that he had just left. He pointedly didn’t look at Eddie, just kept his eyes glued to the television screen. 

Eddie stepped between the chair and the television, blocking Richie’s field of vision.

“Woah there,” Richie said. “Sit down Eddie Spaghetti, some of us are trying to watch a movie.” 

“Give me back my seat, Richie,” Eddie said, unamused. He nudged Richie’s leg with his knee. 

“No,” Richie said, like a brat. “I’m comfortable.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie said, “no shit you are.” 

Richie didn’t show any signs of moving, so Eddie made a decision for him.

A bold one.

A  _ my brain is yelling that this is a bad idea  _ kind of decision. 

He squeezed in between Richie and the arm of the couch. They were close— really close. Their hips pressed against each other. Richie made a sound of protest, but still shifted his body so his arm was slung behind Eddie, inadvertently pulling them together. 

It was warm. 

They’d sat together before: ankles interlocked, knees brushing, shoulders rubbing in the backseat of a car. This was different, though. This was rib cage to shoulder, hand to back, head to head. 

When Richie turned to glare at Eddie, Eddie could feel his breath on his cheek. Eddie kept his eyes on the movie, even when he felt his own mind starting to wander. 

It wandered back to the pharmacy: back to labeled shelves and organization. Clear cut answers. This is what’s wrong and this is what you take to fix it. Back to Richie’s basement, with their faces  _ so close  _ and Eddie’s heartbeat in his throat and the realization—

_ He knows,  _ his brain reminded. 

_ And he’s not pushing me away,  _ Eddie countered. 

And, maybe, that wasn’t what he should have been focused on, but it was better than thinking about how close Richie was, how he was still watching the movie with one eye on Eddie, how he looked (affronted) nervous. And Eddie figured that was fair. He would be, too, maybe. 

_ I mean, how would you feel?  _ He heard Richie’s voice.  _ You find out one of your best friends wants something more from you. She feels a little betrayed.  _

It made him want to pull away, but Richie’s arm was slung over his shoulder, and there was no  _ room  _ to wiggle free so he just… Well, he didn’t  _ relax,  _ per say, because it was rare that Eddie ever actually relaxed, but he did sink back into the seat. 

They watched the movie in relative peace. 

\--

Eddie woke to Richie talking in a low voice. Well, as low of a voice as Richie could manage. 

“Hey,” Richie said, “Hand me a piece of toast.”

Eddie kept his eyes closed, still somewhere in between being asleep and awake. Somewhere, he could smell coffee.

“Get up and get it,” someone-- Stan, Eddie was pretty sure-- scoffed. 

“I’m a little preoccupied right now,” Richie said, faux annoyed. “I don’t wanna wake him up, just give me some hot bread.” 

“Please,” Bev said under her breath. 

Richie sighed. Eddie could just picture him rolling his eyes. “ _ Please _ ,” he added. 

“If you get toast on him, he’s gonna be pissed,” Bev said. 

“I’m the cleanest eater on this side of the Mississippi,” Richie said in his cowboy voice. “There won’t be nary a crumb on Eddie Spaghetti when I’m done here.”

Eddie realized that his head wasn’t pressed against a pillow or the arm of the couch. It was pressed against something sturdy, something breathing and moving.

He had his head pressed against Richie’s chest. 

Someone sighed. Eddie wasn’t sure who it was.

“He’s normally the first one up,” Mike said, and he sounded almost impressed.

“What can I say?” Richie said, “I’m a good pillow.” And Eddie could trick himself into thinking that his voice sounded fond. 

They changed the conversation. Something about school starting back up soon. Something Eddie didn’t want to think about. He was still tired from last night, and Richie was warm, and the soft conversations were boring enough to lull him back to sleep. 

He woke up an hour and a half later to find that Richie had somehow dislocated himself from the chair. Where Richie’s forearm had been was a pillow and the arm of the chair. 

This time, the voices weren’t as quiet. 

“F-f-fuh-fuck you, R-Rich,” he heard from the kitchen, followed by the sound of board game pieces moving. 

“I’m contractually obligated to say  _ Sorry _ ,” Richie said, “but I need you to know I don’t mean it.”

“If anyone wants to use their sorry on Trashmouth,” Bev said, “now would be a good time.”

Eddie sat up. He was alone in the living room, but the evidence from the night before was still spread around. Blankets, pillows, bags. The bowl of chips, nearly empty, was in the middle of the coffee table. A blanket was tossed haphazardly over his shoulders, and Eddie pushed it to the ground as he stood. 

“What the  _ fuck,  _ Rich,” Ben screeched. “Where the fuck are you hiding all the sorry cards?”

“I’m not hiding any of them!” Richie snorted. “I got lucky!”

“Like hell you got lucky,” Mike said, “you shuffled the cards.”

“I didn’t know who was going first! How could I have cheated?”

Eddie wandered into the kitchen doorway. Everyone was staring intently at Richie, pointing fingers. 

“This is why Richie should  _ never  _ be involved in game preparation,” Stan pointed out. “You  _ know  _ this.”

“I didn’t see  _ you  _ volunteering,” Richie argued. “Besides, I don’t--”

“Mornin’,” Bev was the first to say. Immediately, all eyes shifted toward Eddie. Except Richie, who glanced at him, then immediately glanced back down at the board. 

Eddie blinked. 

“I-it’s almost teh-ten th-thirty,” Bill said, and Eddie blinked again.

“You let me sleep that late?” he balked.

“You looked like you needed it.” Stan shrugged.

“This is gonna fuck my sleep schedule up so bad,” Eddie said. “I’m gonna go to bed so late tonight.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Stan said. “Just stay up all night to reset it.”

“You know lack of sleep can kill you, right? They’ve proved that. With studies.”

“Then go to bed super early and force yourself to sleep all night,” Mike said. He pulled a card and moved his piece backwards. 

“ _ Oversleeping can kill you too!”  _ Eddie whined, exasperated. 

“There’s some eggs and bacon in the microwave,” Bev said calmly. “Go heat them up and eat. You’ll feel better.”

So he ate, and he felt better, and he tried to ignore the look they had all exchanged when Bev said that, tried to ignore the twist it had set in his stomach, tried to not feel nauseous about how Richie was still avoiding his gaze, still pulling sorry cards, still… still… still…

_ They talked about you while you were asleep,  _ his brain realized before he did.  _ That’s what that look was. They’re so used to-- and probably sick of-- your shit by now. _

The toast he was swallowing stuck in his throat, like dread. Like a weight. They all continued playing. He watched Richie win, offered a weak smile when Bill forced Richie to be the first one to hand his pieces off to Stan. Ben traded with Bev. Bill slid his to Eddie. Eddie looked down at it for a second, then shook his head.

“I’m not awake enough,” he said, motioning to the crumbs around his mouth. “Keep playing.” 

\--

He stuck around for a few more hours, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. That look. 

_ Condescending,  _ his brain said, and he felt the anger growing in his gut. 

Eventually, when it felt like it was about to devour him, he excused himself with some excuse about needing to grab something from a shop, or going to an evening service at church, or dinner, or some combination of the three. He left with little ribbing. Left without protest. 

\--

He slept that night, but not without thinking about that look. About Richie’s neck bent over the  _ Sorry  _ board, about his gaze landing on everyone except Eddie. 

\--

  
  


When Sonia said, “It’s for you,” in the same way most people would say  _ it’s a cockroach,  _ Eddie knew that Richie was on the other end of the line. He reluctantly took the phone. Sonia didn’t move. Eddie stared at her. She rolled her eyes, huffed, retreated back into the living room. He knew she was just around the corner, listening. Eddie couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“Hey,” he said, turning to examine the fridge. The Christmas cards. The postcards from the vacations of family members. “What’s up?”

He didn’t say,  _ I haven’t really spoken to you in two days, not even when I fell asleep on you why are you calling me?  _ He didn’t say,  _ I was hoping you would call.  _ He didn’t say,  _ I regret everything.  _ He didn’t say,  _ I don’t regret a thing. _

“Can you meet me in the park?” 

And who would Eddie have been to say no to that? Despite the sudden dryness of his throat, and the wobbliness of the tile he stood on, he said, “Yeah, sure. I can be there in twenty.” And he just tried to convince himself that, for now he would be fine.

\--

When Eddie showed up, Richie was already there, perched on the edge of a picnic bench, his fingers folding and unfolding a paper airplane. His leg bounced. His eyes scanned the plane up and down, then closed it again. Scanned it. Closed it. Rinse and repeat. 

“What are we?” Eddie asked, nodding at the toy, “six?”

Richie looked at him, looked back at the plane, and then sent it flying into the barrens. There was no malice behind the action, not really, but something about it made Eddie’s heart seize, and his chest tighten, and his palms sweat. Something about it hurt. Richie didn’t mention it, so Eddie didn’t either. Richie didn’t make eye contact, so Eddie didn’t press. He just wanted whatever this awkwardness was to pass. 

\--

Richie stared down at his feet as they walked. “Bev and Ben talked it out.”

“It’s about time,” Eddie said, trying for levity. He didn’t like how dulled Richie’s voice was. A forced laugh died on his lips. He sombered. “What did they…”

“Bev told him why it bothered her,” he said. “Y’know, she didn’t take kindly to him wanting to bang her--”

“That’s your friend,” Eddie warned. 

“ _ I  _ don’t want to bang her--”

“You still shouldn’t talk about--”

“But she said she was overall flattered. Which, really, considering some of the stuff that’s been said about her--”

“None of which is true.”

“No one is saying it is. Jesus. Can I finish?”

“I’m just saying…”

“And since she asked my opinion before. About, you know, what should happen. And I told her--”

“Let me guess,  _ I could do you one better _ .”

“--she should at least consider it, because Ben is a sweet guy.” Richie shot him a look. 

“Oh,” Eddie said. “So did they…”

“Maybe.” Richie picked at one of his nails. Blood beaded at the corner. 

_ Don’t touch anything,  _ Eddie wanted to warn,  _ It might get infected. _

“I think they’re gonna go out on a date or something.” 

“That’s good?” Eddie offered, because Richie’s tone made it sound anything  _ but _ . 

“Hopefully,” Richie said. Then, in the same breath, “I don’t think we should do this anymore.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic? Updated? Whack. Sorry this one took so long, I was really struggling with writing it and then life came at me hard and fast. Thank you to everyone who's left comments, they really motivated me to keep writing this chapter when I was having a hard time.
> 
> As always, you can come talk to me on Tumblr @dredfulhapiness I also post a lot of drabbles and headcanons there, so if that interests you, I recommend coming to check me out. Thanks so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote a line in here about "the Kill Bill sirens went off in Eddie's head" but something made me look it up and that's how i discovered that Kill Bill came out in 2003 and that's just whack. The title is from Presumably Dead Arm by Sidney Gish. Thank you for reading! If you have any questions or just want to talk to me about Reddie (please come talk to me about Reddie) I'm on tumblr @dredfulhapiness and my asks are always open! Or feel free to leave a comment here! The tags'll update as the story progresses!


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